Thanatos
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: Hell wasn't some tangible place deep under ground, wasn't a fiery furnace with demons and brimstone. You didn't sink through layers of rock and earth and land next to some guy with a pitchfork and a pointy tail... Dean's back, but it's never that easy.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer : I do not own Supernatural (quite obviously). I do, however, own these socks.

A/N: My muse wouldn't leave me alone until I jotted down something, so to pacify it, I wrote this. It's a bit disjointed, and meant to be, in a rambling kind of way. It's intended as something of a one-shot, but if anyone really likes it, and wants more, I might look into it.

As always, please review!

--

He didn't know what he expected.

Open the gates and walk right outta hell? Maybe roll out the red carpet, wipe his boots on the welcome back mat, and get right back to living? Yeah... pull his broken body from a place it shouldn't have been able to go, pick up a shotgun full of rock salt, and go right on hunting those bastards down.

Like nothing had happened.

He'd told Sam, what seemed like hundreds of years ago, that if anyone could find a way out of Hell, it was their father. Like father, like son. He was a product of that man, hell, he was more John than Dean, really. Couldn't remember being his own person. Behind that sarcastic smirk, that sharp wit, he was just a little boy wanting to make his Daddy proud, be a chip off the old block.

It was easier than he thought. Easier than it should ever have been. Come up from behind that sad ass demon, stick a knife through it's throat. Practically choke on the taste of its black, tar blood, and he was out.

Out of Hell.

Hell! And wasn't that so fucked, so deeply wrong? He shouldn't have been able to be there in the first place, not his body. Soul shoulda been sucked out, body left empty, dead where he lay.

But hell wasn't like you heard about as a kid. He knew that, should've known that anyway. Hell wasn't some tangible place deep under ground, wasn't a fiery furnace with demons and brimstone. You didn't sink through layers of rock and earth and land next to some guy with a pitchfork and a pointy tail.

He didn't know what Hell was, even still.

Hell was... it was dark, and lonely. It was Dad and Sam telling him he was worthless, dying over and over right in front of his eyes. It was standing in the nursery, not a boy, but a man. A man in a body with the knowledge and tools to take him down, but not being able to stop that yellow-eyed bastard. It was watching him kill Mom over and over, watching Dad burn as the demon carried baby Sammy off into the night.

It was a thousand shadows rolling over him like oily water, touching his skin in intimate ways while he tried, tried so hard to sleep, but he never did. (Couldn't sleep, wasn't _able_ no matter how tired he got.) He winced and whimpered and pulled away, was humiliated when he cried, but those clouds of smoke pressed against him, sliding into his ears, through his nostrils and eyes, touching his brain with prying fingers.

It was watching them break his body. Using Dad, using Sam. Harsh words, hissed confessions. Snap the limbs, flay open the skin, beat him and cut him until he screamed, cried like a child and begged - God, he _begged_. Not for mercy, no, not for that. He begged for death.

He welcomed death, to close his eyes finally, to sleep, to die, to just stop being, but it never came. No, he was dead already, and his body had been taken, too. More useful, that way, easier to break, and maybe, just maybe it was more _fun_ that way.

They enjoyed it.

He didn't know where he was. No place in particular. He just _was._ He could feel cold floor beneath him, reach out and touch walls, but it didn't mean he was there. No, he was everywhere and nowhere. He was Dean, flesh, blood, and bone, but he was something else, too. Could feel himself floating sometimes, a rush of air over his skin, everything muted and grey. Almost like flying, and he began to panic, and that was when his body would come back.

He would be back. Back, just long enough to realize he was gone again. See the sky, the stars, breathe in air, just a taste, just enough to show him what he was missing. His heart would surge with hope he couldn't bite back - he was there, he was alive! - and at that very moment, he was torn away again, deposited somewhere else.

He watched himself do bad things, tried to find comfort because he knew it wasn't him, he couldn't be doing _that_. He was under their control, possessed, had to be. Had to be, but he wasn't. It was him doing those things, his hands that dealt out death like playing cards.

He thought selling his soul meant he went to Hell, and that was it. Burning away for eternity. He didn't realize it meant the demon had his soul, had control. Didn't know that when that gravelly voice barked a command, he would jump to obey. Or that it didn't matter how hard he tried, how hard he wanted to fight. He _belonged_ to this demon and whether he liked it or not, he would do what he was told.

Whatever he was told.

They told Dean he was a natural. He fit right in, they said, took to it like a duck to water.

He plotted... planned... biding his time until the moment presented itself. Spent night after night telling himself it had to present itself.

He had no idea how much time passed. Held on to his hope, until they beat that away, too. And then there was only anger. Anger he embraced because that was all that remained.

And then, it came. One night. It was hot, stifling under the atmosphere after being nowhere, everywhere all at once. He was standing over a a body. The body that housed the demon he knew as Ruby. She told him once that it took centuries to become a demon, so he couldn't be a demon, could he? Time passed differently there, he knew that, but had to way to calculate. No way to judge, because he'd never get any older.

It couldn't have been that long, because that would mean...

_Sammy? You'll never see him again. Dead and gone, years and years ago. Body's probably dust by now._

He wondered if Sammy went to Heaven. If Heaven even existed. Hell existed, so you never knew, but the voices told him Sammy was just ... gone.

So he stood there, vacant eyed over the body of Ruby. The demon that had been a thorn in so many sides, her and her knife. She had helped them with the Colt, helped them and pissed off a lot of demons.

And then the Colt got stolen, the only thing they could have used to break the deal. But it wasn't the only thing, he remembered. It was a moment of enlightenment, realization dawning on him as he knelt by the body.

The demon laughed, and then he took that knife, that damn cursed object, and he stuck it through the throat. Severed the spinal cord of the body the demon was wearing, and broke free of the bond.

And just like that, it was over.

_Too easy, too easy_ his mind screamed, and he ran, convinced the hounds of hell were on his heels again, baring their teeth, ready to bite down and drag him back. The demon - _his_ demon - was dead, but could it really be that simple? There were more, so many more that would love to get their hands on him.

The world didn't _look_ like centuries had passed. Things looked the same, but they felt different. He felt different.

What was he? Human? Demon?

_No, not demon... can't be._

But what?

He spent that night behind a dumpster in an alley, curled up in a ball, making himself as small and scarce as he could. His body was aching. He'd gone as far as he could before it shut down on him. He didn't remember what it felt like to be tired, and thought maybe if he tried, maybe now he could sleep... but he couldn't chance it. He couldn't be caught unaware, so he stayed awake, crying in frustration because he was just so_ tired_.

No hounds came calling.

No demons.

Nothing.

But it didn't matter, did it? He was as good as dead.

No, he could not go back to living, because he had no life to return to. No Dad, no Sam, no phone full of contacts to call for help. He had the knife now, Ruby's knife, but that was all.

He had no purpose. So he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He went on.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer : I don't own Supernatural, and this idea has probably been done before. I'm trying to steer clear of other stories involving Dean and Hell.. which is HARD, because there are a lot of good authors on here, and I really want to read. -sob- Alas, I don't want to be influenced, or accidentally copy someone's ideas, so I'm staying away for now. -sniffle-

A/N : Thank you to all of you who expressed interest in more of this! I really appreciate the reviews and the compliments. I'm sorry I get so much enjoyment out of making you guys sad, but I can't help it! And I promise, I can't guarantee a happy ending, but I'm NOT going to kill Dean.

Reviewers automatically get my delicious Impala shaped cookies!

--

Once, he was human. Long ago, he lived. He knew he had enjoyed life, but he couldn't remember what it felt like. He couldn't remember a lot of things at first. Some memories he'd held on to - important things, like Dad, and Sam - but others escaped him. He lived with a sense of confusion, as if there were things just beyond his grasp, waiting patiently for him to catch up.

He wandered around aimlessly for almost a day, totally lost after that first night. It was well into the next before it dawned on him to find a convenience store. At first he couldn't bring himself to go in. There were too many people, pumping gas, buying things, in and out the front door that jingled every time someone pushed it open. So he'd waited, waited until it was too late for normal people to be out.

He'd gone inside, feeling the clerk's eyes on his back as he headed for the restrooms in the back. As he'd hoped, there was a map tacked up between the doors marked Ladies and Men. A quick glance cataloged the name and location, but it didn't tell him much. He was nowhere he knew.

The eyes of the clerk were still on his back, so he slipped into the men's room, locking the door behind him.

One look in the mirror told him why. He was filthy, clothes stained with the demon's blood, and whatever he'd picked up curled behind the dumpster. If he smelled, he wouldn't know it; he could still smell sulfur, only sulfur. He looked at his reflection, but the second his eyes met the mirror image, the scrutiny was too much, and he had to look away.

He made half hearted effort to clean up, emptying the towel dispenser as he tried to wash and dry both his hair, shirt, and face. The rough white paper came away black, so he didn't give up until they came away mostly clean.

Feeling exhausted by that little activity, he stepped out of the bathroom.

He wanted to bolt for the door with the suspicious eyes that followed him as he moved around the small store. The clerk probably thought he was going to try to rob her, but he had more important problems.

First, he had just come back from the dead.

Secondly, he was starving.

A quick search of his pockets surprisingly revealed a ten dollar bill. It was crumpled, slightly damp, and he found himself wondering what the fuck it was doing there. His hand automatically went to his back pocket, but there was no wallet waiting.

Almost hesitantly, he looked over the selection in front of him. It didn't take him long to select a bottle of soda and a bag of peanut M&Ms. What took a while was getting up the guts to make the long walk to the counter, place the items on the counter, and wait, under scrutiny, while the clerk checked him out.

She muttered a total and he shoved the ten at her. His heart was pounding, and he kept his eyes fixed on the rack of candy displayed at the register. When she handed his change back, he'd already grabbed his food, and was out the door in a matter of seconds.

He beat a hasty retreat, going several blocks before he finally sought shelter in the form of an alley. He didn't like knowing there was only one way out if trouble came calling, but as he pressed his back against the dead end wall, he didn't care. It was comforting to know there was only one way in, too. No sneaking up behind him.

He tore into the M&Ms, stuffing a handful in his mouth, ravenous. He didn't wait to taste them before following with several more handfuls. He washed them down with swigs of soda, but it didn't taste right. Still, he ate, half afraid this earthly pleasure would be stolen from him if he didn't.

Moments later he was bent over, emptying his stomach of the first food he'd had in who knew how long. He stayed there, bent over, one arm over his head to brace himself against the wall. Letting his forehead rest against the cool brick.

He left the empty wrapper and mostly full Coke sitting on the ground.

It all tasted like ash.

--

He spent the night curled up on the front steps of a church. Unlike the alley, it offered no comfort. If anything, it made his skin crawl. Still, he somehow knew it was his best bet. Cops would chase him off a park bench, or out of the doorway of an office building, but they'd think twice before doing that at God's house. No, if you were homeless, God was just the guy to turn to.

He clutched Ruby's knife, and waited for dawn. But when morning finally came, he found himself wishing for the darkness again. The sun was too bright, the streets too crowded as they came alive with people. He watched from the church steps as the first few came and went, people heading to work, mostly. When they came out in full force, though, he retreated.

He didn't know where to go, so he spent the day walking. After last night, he wasn't hungry, but he knew he still needed money, and a few bucks and change wouldn't get him anywhere. With his stomach still queasy, he went about solving his problem.

He could try panhandling, but people were wary of his appearance, taking a wide path around him, or moving to the other side of the street altogether. He was glad, it kept him from having to do the same.

_Besides_, he swore. _I will never beg again. Ever._

So he settled for the next best thing. He stole. It was only fifty bucks, but it felt like much more. He'd taken it from a woman's purse, watching as she walked her son to the water fountain at the park and lifted him up to drink. She was only a few feet away, and he guessed she figured she didn't need to worry.

It made him uneasy, stealing money, but she was well dressed, the purse designer, so he figured she could spare it.

But realistically, he knew fifty bucks wouldn't get him anywhere either. He needed new clothing, an actual roof to spend the night under, and - despite what his stomach said - he would need to eat again.

It was all gradually coming back to him, so he wasn't surprised when his boots carried him in the direction of a bar that night.

It was all gradually coming back to him, so he wasn't surprised when his boots carried him in the direction of a bar that night. He watched from a safe distance as people came and went, but could not make himself go in. The scent of beer, smoke, and sweat clung to the bodies that came through the doors, and even from across the street he could smell it.

That, too, was familiar, and he could almost feel a pool cue in his hands. It was all muscle memory, and he knew all he had to do was go through the motions, drink a little beer, talk a little smack, and he'd leave with at least enough to last until he figured out what to do.

He shivered and stuffed his hands in his pockets, suddenly noticing how chilly it had gotten. Sparing a glance at the jeans, t-shirt and light jacket he wore, he felt sudden relief. Dirty, disheveled, stained, there was no way he could go in there.

He needed another plan.

He stayed where he was, just watching, for over an hour before he found what he was looking for. It was late, but the party was still going on inside. No one was hanging around outside, and the door opened, spilling out one patron before slamming shut, and staying that way.

The man was very large, and very drunk. He stumbled towards the alley behind the bar, one hand fumbling with his zipper.

Already Dean was in motion. He followed, as silent as his boots allowed. He caught up with him just as the guy was zipping up, and fearing he might lose the element of surprise, struck out.

The well placed blow would have put most men out like a light. But as pain shot through his fist, he realized the man was not going down. Instead, he whirled around with an indignant grunt, and Dean's stomach sank. He didn't even look fazed, just pissed.

Before he even knew what happened, the man's fist - which seemed the size of his own head - was rushing towards him. He took the hit on the cheek, knuckles grazing his eye, the force of it spinning him, and went down hard. His forehead impacted the ground hard, and he tasted dirt and blood. Stars exploded in front of his eyes and the knife he'd hidden in his belt bit into his hip as he tried to drag it out. The pain went unnoticed as panic bubbled up in his chest as he realized he'd unintentionally given this man his back.

Trying to recover from the sudden shock, he twisted to his back, hands grappling for the knife.

The man might be drunk, but it didn't show, as he stomped over and delivered a swift kick to Dean's ribs. In response, he exhaled sharply and his hands automatically went to guard the offended area.

"The _fuck_, man?" the guy shouted, rearing back to kick again.

This time he caught the kick with half of his hand, and cried out. He willed the man to take his shots and just _go_. He would endure them, and as much as it hurt, he told himself it would be over soon.

But then the man was looming over him, grabbing him by the shoulders and lifting him up, pushing him brutally up against the brick wall.

Something inside him snapped, and he found himself fighting back in an adrenaline fueled frenzy. He didn't know if he was even landing any punches, didn't care. He was being overpowered, and he needed to stop it.

He heard a strangled scream, and it took a minute to realize it was coming from him.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" he heard the guy say, just before he shook him, hard.

His head connected with the wall, and his already splitting headache intensified. Managing to get his hands on the guy's chest, he shoved him back with the last bit of strength he had. He felt his legs buckle and he slid down the wall, one arm holding the knife out in front of him.

The man took a step forward, anger written on his face, clearly not thinking much of the knife.

"Hey!" a sudden voice shouted from the far end of the alley.

The man looked up, surprised, then back down, before making fast tracks as the dark figure at the opposite end broke into a jog.

Dean tried to press himself further back, willing the wall to swallow him as the person came closer. He held the knife out in front of him, making a very obvious threat.

"Hey, you okay?" The voice came down at him from a figure still hidden in darkness.

He knelt, and Dean froze. He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything, because the guy in front of him looked so much like Sam his chest felt like it was going to cave in. His heart, already racing, leapt into his throat, and the name formed on his lips before he remembered.

He sat up straighter, head swimming, thrusting the knife outward, knowing it was a half assed move even as the knife missed it's target.

The man who was not Sam opened his eyes wide, narrowed them immediately after, then spoke -

"_Cristo_."

Dean raised the knife again. For a moment, he was steady.

Then, the knife dropped, and so did he.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N : Time for some Sammy? Yeah, I think so! I'm not going to reveal just how much time has passed yet, but don't worry, it will come up in later chapters. So if you're wondering, I swear, Sam's not a grandpa!

If you're reading, please let me know... this story is both easy and _very_ hard to write, so your reviews is a great source of motivation!

Impala cookies for everyone!

--

Sam paced, phone pressed to his ear.

"I know it can't be him," he said, rubbing his hand along his jawline. "I mean, I _know,_ okay, Bobby? I know you think it's stupid, but you gotta understand..."

He paused, then answered, "No, he's tied up. I'm being careful."

Another pause, a sigh, and then, "Yeah. I got it. I'll call you if anything turns up."

He snapped the phone shut, shoved it in his pocket, and went back to pacing. He folded his arms, uncrossed them, then shoved them in his pockets. Paced this way, then back, and finally forced himself to stop. Full of restless energy, he stared at the body on the bed.

When he'd stumbled on the fight outside the bar that night, he'd called out on pure instinct, and when he'd leaned down to take a look at the guy those three idiots had been using as a punching bag, he'd practically stopped breathing.

It looked so much like Dean...hadn't even flinched when he said _cristo. _Just stared, knife held in an unsteady hand, making a feeble attempt to drive Sam away. He might have laughed if it had been someone else. Left them to their owen devices, even.

But God, he was a dead ringer. He looked just like Dean.

The face was dead on. He could tell, under the dirt that darkened his complexion, it was all Dean. Even with the bruise already blooming over the right side of his face, forming a shiner that had the entire area already swollen. There was a bit of dried blood in the corner of his mouth, and a bloody scrape that disappeared into the blood- darkened hair. But all of it - the blood, the bruises, it was all so familiar. How often had his brother looked just like this after a fight or a hunt gone wrong?

He shook his head, mentally slapping himself.

It looked like him, but wasn't. He needed to remember that.

Still, his mind went back to the place he tried so hard to stay away from - Dean's last day.

They'd run it down to the buzzer, exhausting every avenue before Sam had been forced to accept what his brother had weeks ago : there would be no saving Dean Winchester. Time had run out, and there would be no miracle, no last minute victory.

He wanted to keep going, still. Tried to convince Dean of it, too, because he didn't know what else to do. It felt wrong to just wait for it to happen. Felt like giving up on his brother.

But Dean had shaken his head.

--

"There's no way I'm spending my last few hours running around like a chicken with its head cut off," he'd said, giving Sam a glare that said he wasn't taking no for an answer. "I want to enjoy it. Can we just... can we just stop?

Sam had almost protested, but then the glare was gone.

"Sam..." his brother's voice was void of all anger, just a sad, soft tone he'd never heard before. He realized it was acceptance. "Please."

So they'd stopped, right there, on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, and sat with their backs against the Impala, just watching the sun go down in a watercolor sunset.

After a moment of silence, Dean reached up to take hold of the amulet around his neck, hesitantly lifting it over his head. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sam.

"Dean, I can't - " Sam started, caught off guard. He didn't want to do this, didn't want to face the fact that these were Dean's last hours, that at midnight, he would be gone, forever. He felt his throat close, and for a minute he thought he was going to die with the force of that realization.

"Take it, Sammy," Dean insisted, hurriedly shoving it into his hand when Sam couldn't make himself reach for it. "I want you to have it."

He'd wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Then Dean had stood, stretching, and Sam followed suit.

"It's beautiful," Dean said, motioning to the orange and red sky against a dark silhouette of trees far below.

Sam thought about teasing his brother for such a chick flick statement, if only to achieve that normalcy he'd soon be missing, but instead took a few steps ahead. "Yeah. It is."

Dean cleared his throat. "I don't know how to do this, Sam. I don't know how to say goodbye forever."

Sam could still hear the hitch in his brother's voice, that hoarse tone that he got when he was trying to hold his emotions under check. Could still see the way the sun painted shadows across his drawn face.

He hadn't made a noise, just let Dean talk.

"I know you hate me for making this deal, and I don't blame you. I'd kick your ass if you'd pulled that kind of stunt." Dean chuckled a little. "I couldn't let you die, Sammy. You're my _brother._"

He'd watched Dean turn the bottle in his hands. "So I need you to promise me something."

"What?" he asked, his voice cracking as he did.

And then Dean met his eyes with an intense stare.

"I traded my life for yours. So that you could live," he said. "I'm going to Hell, for you."

"Dean!" Sam had cried, unable to stop the tears sliding down his face. "Don't you think I know that? That I won't live with it every day of my life?"

"I'm counting on that, Sammy," Dean said, his voice low. "I'm counting on you to make sure my death means something. I need to know you'll gone on living, keep fighting. I need to know I'm not dying for nothing. Promise me you'll live."

Sam turned away to face the now darkened horizon, raking the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes. "I promise."

Dean sighed softly behind him.

"I've always been proud of you," he said. "Whatever you do, remember that."

Sam's entire body was trembling, and he pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes. He sucked in a breath, and his voice shook. "Jerk."

He heard the smile in his brother's answer, "Bitch."

He let that sink in, savored it, knowing the warmth that spread through him would soon vanish, leaving him again with that cold sense of fear and sadness. He turned around, a sad smile on his face, but frowned when he saw his brother's entire body tense. "What is it?"

Dean spoke slowly. "You hear that?"

Sam listened carefully for a moment but heard nothing. "What?"

"Dogs."

"What?" Sam asked, blinking.

"I hear dogs, Sammy," Dean said, his voice flat.

"What?" the word exploded from his mouth. "No, Dean, it's not time, it's not even midnight!"

In the early twilight, he saw Dean's shoulders slump.

"Guess they decided to come around early, eh?" His voice held no humor, just resignation.

"No," Sam said, softly at first. Then it was adamant. "_No_!"

Dean swallowed hard, and tried to offer up a reassuring smile for his brother.

This change of rules had Sam reeling, and he shot to the trunk of the Impala, digging through their weapons.

"We'll hold 'em off," he called over his shoulder, looking for the salt.

It didn't matter if it didn't work, it was something, and he knew without being told that Dean would want to go down swinging.

But there was no answer, just a sudden silence.

He spun around, and in the early twilight, he saw that he was alone.

He circled the Impala, eyes straining into the darkness to see if Dean was playing a cruel practical joke on him.

"No," he said again, his world dropping out from underneath his feet. "Dean? _Dean_!"

But that was it.

Dean was just... gone.

--

Even now it was hard to forget the panic, the overwhelming realization that he was alone in the world. He was on his own, but more than that, Dean was _gone_, sentenced to eternal suffering just so Sam could go on living. It was all too much, the guilt, the shame, the fear not just for himself, but for Dean. Sorrow, the kind he'd never felt, not when Dad died, not even when he saw Jess burning right in front of him. Rage, anger at Dean, at the unfairness of the whole damn situation. A hollow, empty pit in his chest, so real that he thought his heart really had broken, cracked in half and now he was filling up with blood.

That first night had been hell. He'd spent the better part of the night searching the area immediately around the Impala, then into the woods by the side of the road with a flashlight, desperate for any trace of Dean. A footprint, anything, but of course there was none.

He wanted an explanation, why the rules were different for Dean, why he'd just vanished, unlike the others who had made deals. He wanted anything, because just then, he felt like he was dying all over again.

He'd dropped to his knees in the middle of the deserted highway, and screamed, wanting everything he was feeling to just _stop. _When he finally made it to the car, he was sobbing, his whole body wracked with spasms, choking on gasps of air. He couldn't see to drive straight, so he spent the night curled up in the backseat of the Impala, clutching Dean's leather jacket like a lifeline. He wanted his brother back, and without him, he wanted to die himself because it was not _right._

But he'd promised, and, with the words burning in his head, he'd done just tried to do what Dean asked. The first year, he'd refused to give up, telling himself that somewhere out there, there had to be something that could get his brother back. But as time went on, hoping got harder, until eventually, he'd had to come to terms with that, too. So he'd gone on with life, throwing himself into hunting.

At first, it was nearly impossible, and every time it felt like he was missing something vital, like half of him was gone. Which, in a way, it was. But he pressed on, and eventually, it got easier, until he found some sort of comfort in them. The memories of Dean at his side, shotgun cocked, smirk on his lips, became less painful, and more fortifying.

He took on everything he could, savored the fight, because least then, he had an outlet. At least then he had something tangible to punish. Every demon exorcised a little slice of revenge for what he imagined Dean going through. With every creature he slayed, every hunt he completed, it got easier to live again, but he never stopped thinking about it.

And that, that was the worst. His imagination, and knowing the horrible things he dreamed, the things he couldn't stop thinking even when he was focused on a hunt, all of the things he imagined could not come close to what Dean was really going through.

--

He was pulled from his thoughts by a shout. He started, realizing he'd been staring into space, and now turned his attention to the bed. Dean - the thing pretending to be Dean- was struggling violently at the ropes that tied his hands to the headboard. He'd had to duct tape his legs together at the ankles, and, not sure of the strength he'd be facing, saved the extra rope in case he _really_ needed to tie him to something.

He realized he might have to.

The Dean-thing had woken up. It was writhing on the bed, thrashing from side to side, arms straining at the bonds, legs trying to move.

He'd expected resistance, hence the precautions, but he hadn't expected such a violent response. He waited to see what would happen, taking a step back before he realized he'd done it.

The Dean-thing was really going crazy, and for a moment he worried, but the rope held firm. Already he could see the wrists getting red. A surge of satisfaction welled up inside him. Good. Let it suffer. Show it what happened when it desecrated his brother's name.

He folded his arms.

The thing started screaming, using Dean's voice, not forming words, just hoarse screams, and Sam sprang into action. He had no idea of knowing how many guests were at the motel and the last thing he needed was management knocking on the door asking questions.

He retrieved the flask of holy water from the table, uncapped it, and flung a healthy amount over the face of the Dean-thing.

"Shut up!"

The skin didn't burn, but the screaming stopped as soon as the command was issued, and for a moment, all was silent.

When the whimpering started, it was muted at first.

Sam stared hard at the flask in his hand, then up to where drops of liquid glistened on that too familiar face. Okay, so it wasn't a demon.

Skinwalker?

He watched in quiet fascination, his heart thumping, willing himself to think. He needed to come up with an explanation, because the longer he stood there, the harder it was to deny the hope that had sparked when he first laid eyes on the thing. Hope that was dashed by anger, and the hole in his chest he'd felt every day since Dean disappeared.

That, not hope, was what had compelled him to bring the thing to his room. He wanted to know why this thing dared to disgrace his brother's memory by wearing his face. Where he'd gotten the image and what he'd done with it. And when he found out, he wanted to send him back to hell, not necessarily in one piece.

But now, as he watched the face contort in pain, the gasps of air that came between the whimpers - which grew increasingly louder each minute - it was hard not to hope. He felt stupid, angry, and alone. He wanted to be able to kill this thing, not entertain some sorry notion that somehow, Dean had come back.

It was impossible, and he knew it.

He would kill this bastard, demon or skinwalker, or whatever the hell else it might be.

Even as he went to his bag, he moved as if in slow motion. It wasn't Dean, but it didn't matter. It didn't matter because killing it would feel like killing Dean. Even if he looked away, he would see Dean's face as he pulled the trigger.

He dug through his bag, distracted.

"Please."

The voice was no more than a whisper, but to Sam, it was deafening.

He froze. He'd dealt with the silence since Dean was gone. Now, the voice that had sung him to sleep as a baby, coached him on how to ride a bike, teased him well into adulthood, penetrated his skin. Never had he heard his brother's voice, sounding so desperate, so lost, _pleading_.

Which made sense, because it _wasn't Dean._

It became his mantra as he gathered the strength to turn around. The Dean-thing was still straining at his bonds, breath still coming in pants, but he saw now it was not fueled by defiance.

It moaned in that half whisper, in time with the words his brain kept repeating.

"Please, please, please, please, please."

_Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean. Not Dean._

He took a step closer.

Its face was covered in sweat, paler than he remembered it being, and the eyes were shut tightly.

Sam swallowed.

_Not Dean. NOT DEAN. _

And suddenly he seized upward, body rising as far as the ropes allowed, fists clenched.

Sam shot backwards, almost stumbling, his heart in his throat. "Jesus!"

And then, it screamed.

_"NO!" _

It was one word, but it hung in the air for what felt like hours. Even as Sam watched the body go limp, tears slipping from beneath closed eyelids, he could still hear it ringing in his ears.

He watched as the body tried to curl in on itself, held in place by the rope and tape. Watched the lips move in what he could only assume was a silent continuation of his pleas.

He couldn't stop his mouth from spilling over.

"Dean?"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N : For those of you who have reviewed - a dozen calorie-free cookies!

For those of you who added it to story alert without reviewing - no cookies yet. If you're reading, please let me know! It helps to know why people are reading and while I have some of this planned out already, let me know what you want to see. At any rate, reviews are the spice of life, and they fuel updates more quickly than caffeine!

_Puts on the puppy eyes._

Now, without further delay... chapter four!

--

Half a dozen exorcisms - none of which got any response - and one panicked phone call to Bobby later, Sam sat with his back against the wall, totally lost. The Dean-thing was still shifting restlessly on the bed, quietly moaning every so often. He'd been watching it for the better part of an hour.

He'd snapped his phone shut on a promise to dispatch the bastard, whatever it was, as soon as he hung up. He knew Bobby was right, that it didn't matter _what_ it was, what face it wore, or how much he wanted it to be true. It wasn't Dean, and that in itself was reason to shoot first, ask questions later.

But even as he promised Bobby he'd take care of it, that no, he didn't need him to drive up there and do it for him, he knew he was lying.

It might be a setup, but it was pure dumb luck he'd stumbled onto that fight in the alley. He'd been at the local hot spot, digging information out of half drunk idiots who had no idea the 'haunted house' that got them a little recognition from the newspaper was also turning up dead bodies. He'd been disappointed, because the way things sounded, it was going to be a simple job. As it was told, the bones of the former owner had been discovered and removed years ago. The murder had been solved, but the bones had been sitting at the disposal of the local college, a benefit to archaeology students ever since the case closed.

He'd get in, get the bones, get out. A quick salt and burn and he'd be on his way. That was the plan, but when he'd heard a strangled scream, he'd gone to check it out. It seemed like what he expected, a couple of drunks arguing behind the bar. It wasn't exactly a fair fight, and he really didn't want to get involved, but when the one went down, the other guy didn't look like he was going to leave it alone. He'd sighed, and called out, bracing himself for a fight, but the guy just took off running.

Already involved, Sam figured he might as well make sure the other guy wasn't dead, and was met with the point of a knife. He'd wanted to roll his eyes at the show of appreciation, but something made him stop.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. Recognition and barely suppressed hope were quickly buried by anger. But _cristo_ had failed to get a response, and the thing passed out before he could decide what to do next. He'd stood there for a full five minutes before carrying it back to the Impala.

He'd planned on getting answers, whatever it took, but the longer he sat there, the easier it became to just entertain the idea that maybe, somehow, Dean had gotten out of the deal.

So, either way he needed to do something. He stood up, tired body protesting the movement, and glanced at the clock.

From the bathroom, he retrieved a washcloth, then filled the empty ice bucket with water. It might not be Dean, but...

He set the ice bucket on the bedside table and dipped the washcloth in the water. After a moment of hesitation, he dabbed it against the corner of it's mouth, the towel coming away dirty, tinged with rust. The thing stirred, but didn't move, so he quickly moved on to the forehead, gently patting the scrapes free of blood. As he cleaned, he was amazed at the amount of dirt that came off, too, revealing pale skin, and creating an almost comical contrast against the patches that remained filthy.

He swallowed hard as he revealed more clean skin, diminishing a visible barrier. More and more he wanted answers.

He dunked the dirty towel into the ice bucket, and made a face at the brown water. He was just debating whether or not to change the water and keep wiping away grime when he noticed a stain on it's jeans. It wasn't remarkable considering the state of the clothing, but this one was fresh.

"Shit," he muttered, lifting the worn t-shirt gently to take a better look.

Idiot must have been carrying the knife without a sheath, he realized. Probably nicked himself pulling it on the guy in the alley.

With a sigh, he frowned at the belt, and decided he wasn't feeling that generous. He'd settle for nudging the jeans lower on its hips and pulling the shirt up a little higher.

As soon as his fingers touched denim, though, the Dean-thing's eyes snapped open, and it jerked away. In response, Sam jumped back.

"Easy!" he said, angry at being caught off guard. "Jesus."

For the first time, the Dean-thing seemed coherent, staring at Sam through wary eyes. Those eyes flickered down to his waist, then back up, almost accusingly.

"I was trying to help you," Sam spat, dropping the washcloth into the dingy water.

Wordlessly, those eyes went to the ropes.

"What are you?" Sam asked, feeling the anger. "Skinwalker? Crazed fan? What?"

Eyebrows furrowed.

Sam took a step forward, and immediately it shrank backward.

"Don't!"

The voice was Dean's, no doubt about it.

"I'm not going to do anything," Sam said, then thought to ad, "yet."

He wiped his hands on his jeans, uncomfortable with the way the thing was watching him. Most things he hunted didn't deal well with being tied up, threatened. But the reaction was always anger, and this one had him uneasy.

"What are you?" he asked again.

There was hesitation, and then the Dean-thing looked away.

"Tell me, or I'll figure out where to start," Sam growled, not having to feign the threat in his voice.

It made a small noise, not quite a whimper, but close enough.

He plucked the knife it had been carrying from the table next to him.

"You need to start talking," he said, keeping his voice low to maximize the threat.

Sam couldn't deny the dirty feeling that settled in his stomach when he saw the reaction to that threat. Something he couldn't read blossomed in those eyes. It shook it's head, eyes never leaving the knife.

"_Cristo_ gets nothing," Sam said slowly. "Holy water doesn't burn. So what else could you be, hiding in that skin?"

It was a good actor, Sam decided when it managed to look confused. It kept its eyes on the knife, watching as Sam continued to turn it.

"What I want to know," he said, pointing with the knife, "is why this face? You had your pick of a million, and you pick this one?"

He moved to the side of the bed, and let the sharp blade rest on its chest. "Where did you get it?"

The Dean-thing exhaled sharply, and turned his face to the ceiling, staring at the dirty tiles with expressionless eyes. "Just do it."

Sam swallowed, the knife jerking a bit as his hand shook; he fought to steady it. Wasn't it going to fight back? It had Dean's face, but none of his fire. If it was a skinwalker, it would know how to play along, would surely play on the hope it should know Sam tried to bury. So why did it just lay there, accepting it?

His mind tried to remember what creatures could mimic a human form, but the one thing that kept coming back to him was the one thing he couldn't let himself believe.

_It's Dean... _

He pulled the knife back, suddenly exhausted. It was nearly three in the morning, and he was just _tired._ Of everything.

"Just tell me what you are," he said, stepping back and letting the knife drop to the table with a dull thunk. "Please."

It just kept staring at the ceiling, all the earlier fight gone. If he hadn't seen the chest rise and fall, he would have thought he was interrogating a corpse.

Sam only shook his head, so incredibly overwhelmed. Maybe he _should _take Bobby up on his offer. He thought he could deal with this, but... God, it was like losing him all over again. Hope dangled in front of him, some cruel hand offering water to a man dying of thirst in the desert in July, then pulling it away as soon as his fingers came close.

"Fine," Sam spat. "Have it your way."

--

_If it looks like a Sam, walks, talks like a Sam... it's a demon, and don't you forget it._

The despair was overwhelming.

Oh, he'd hoped before. Woke up on the ground in a forest once, took off running thinking he'd made it somehow. Sat there for a minute trying to catch his breath, and the minute he stood up, a hand clamped around his ankle. The next time he didn't hesitate. Just ran and ran and finally reached the highway, fingers stretched out as if he could catch the bumper of the car shooting past. As if he could outrun a demon. Each time they let him get a little further, but the end result was always the same.

_You knew better than to run._

This one was new, though. They never let him go that long before. Never let him go at all, really. No, it was just another trick, and his body was back in the wherever/whatever-hell-was void.

Felt so real... he really thought he'd made it. Played right into their hands, but he wouldn't play along anymore. Now all he could do was wait for the punishment; damned if he was going to let them enjoy it any more.

The not-Sam was asking him questions. A few he might have answered, he couldn't be sure. All he could do was watch the knife turn in those hands, the carbon copy of Sam hands holding the threat that could mean his freedom.

Did the knife really exist? Had he killed Ruby, or did she still have it?

But it didn't matter, because if they were using this, they knew about the possibility, and he'd never get close enough to Ruby to say hello, let alone steal the knife. He'd never been materialistic but if he could just have that knife, just that one thing...

The tip of the knife connected with his chest, feather light, and he froze.

Sam's voice floated through his thoughts. He turned away, facing the ceiling.

"Just do it."

He focused on the ceiling, eyes boring holes in the tiles, wondering how many of the tiny dots he could count before the pain hit.

_Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten..._

He heard speaking, refused to listen. Focused on the ceiling, wondering when it would disappear and what they'd use next and God he felt like falling apart. Maybe he had... maybe he was in a million tiny pieces, particles of Dean Winchester that could barely claim to exist anymore. And every part had been shot into space, frozen and left to float on their own, never living, never dying, just cursed to be as empty as the dead around him.

That was how it felt to hope.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N : Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! I can't tell you how nice it is to have feedback. I'm trying to keep a chapter or two ahead so I can update more often, so I need all the motivation I can get!

There's an explanation for anyone looking at the bottom of the page.

Poor, desperate Sam...

--

Sam couldn't sleep. And not just because his mess of a night. He couldn't sleep because there was a body in his bed, looking all for the world like his dead brother, tearing open barely healing wounds. Now he was bleeding all over the motel room as he paced, trying to figure out what the hell it was he was supposed to do about this.

As a precaution, he laid a circle of salt around the bed. It proved to be difficult, and he had to haul the entire frame, headboard and all, out a few inches so he could get the circle complete. Only after that had he realized he should have tied the damn thing to a chair and locked it in the bathroom so he could grab a few hours.

At least it didn't have any advantage over him. It was tied down as securely as he could get, and it didn't seem in any hurry to escape. After a while, he'd thought it was sleeping, but the eyes never closed. Unless it was doing a creepy 'sleep with your eyes open' thing, it had to be as tired as him.

He laid the cards out on the table.

The way he saw it, he had two choices. He killed it, or he let it live. Of course, all that depended on so much more, and it had his head spinning.

He slammed his fist on the first accessible object, which just so happened to be the TV. Three things happened as he did : pain shot through his hand, a sharp noise exploded into the silence, and the thing _jumped._ It didn't get far, but he'd wanted a reaction, and there it was.

It didn't make him feel any better, though, and now his hand hurt. He turned away, inspecting the TV for damage. He couldn't afford to fork over any extra cash because of stupidity.

"Smart move, Sam," he muttered, brushing the top of the TV.

His phone rang, chirping loudly, and he snatched it out of his pocket, bringing it to his face with a growled, "What?!"

Bobby's voice sighed from the other end of the line.

_"Let me guess, it ain't dead yet?"_

Frustrated, Sam shoved a hand through his hair, raking it away from his face. "No, it's not."

_"Sam..."_

"I know Bobby," he interrupted - only to have Bobby interrupt right back.

_"You know but it's still alive? Sam, I know its looking like Dean's got you shook up, but you're going to have to make a choice."_

Sam sighed, looking at the bed again. "I just... I want answers, Bobby."

_"Then you know there's only one way you're gonna get any."_

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not gonna like it?"

_"Hell, Sam, you already know the options. Unless you got a truth spell, it's gonna be torture. And even then, you can't always trust -"_

"Truth spell?" Sam interrupted, curiosity peaked.

Bobby's sigh dragged out for a long time.

_"You know if there was one, we'd've used it by now. Now listen, Sam... I'm gonna give you three hours. After that, I'm gonna come up there myself, all right?"_

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "Thanks, Bobby."

He disconnected, and shoved the phone back in his pocket, sighing in frustration. Now he was working under a deadline. Three hours didn't give him much time.

He wanted more than answers, he realized. He wanted his mind to make itself up, for his heart to reveal something he thought he should be feeling. If this was Dean, he would _know_.

Wouldn't he?

And that was what it all boiled down to, that indecision. He was at war with himself, one part of his mind screaming to him that if Dean had returned, he would have known. Would have felt it somehow. But the other part told him that was wishful thinking, and that if by some twist of fate, some miracle, his brother had found a way out, he would never know.

Both parts wanted to believe this was Dean. Neither part would allow him.

He knew, without a doubt, that he could not kill this thing.

Even if he found himself against the wall with a knife at his throat - which, he had to admit, was pretty damn likely - he wouldn't be able to end it. Hell, his last breath would probably be spent trying to convince the thing it _was_ Dean.

The smart thing to do would be to make sure the job got done, even if he couldn't do it himself.

Which was why the next thing he did was call Bobby.

But as he gripped the phone, he heard himself say something entirely different :

"It's me. It's done."

--

At night, when he was supposed to find peace in his dreams, Sam dreamed of death. He saw his brother die in a hundred different ways, some memories left over from a trickster, others close calls his mind could not let go. Still other nights he dreamt not of death, but disappearance. The way his brother had gone out still had him waking up in cold sweats.

He went to lengths to avoid that some nights, so he wasn't exactly torn up over missing out on some sleep. Still, he had a sour taste in his mouth, knowing he'd lied to Bobby, and it'd probably bite him on the ass sooner rather than later. Oh, and it might have something to do with the fact that it was three o' clock in the morning, and he was breaking into an animal hospital.

He'd left the Dean thing tied up, tied down, everything but chained to the bed. And if he'd had chains, they'd be employed, too. He'd duct taped its mouth shut so it couldn't scream, and moved everything out of its reach. No way was it going to get a hand free to grab anything, but he wasn't taking chances. The last thing he needed was to involve some poor bastard in something that was way over their head.

He tugged on his gloves, making sure they were secure, and set about picking the lock at the back entrance of the clinic. At first he was surprised there wasn't more of a security system, but it was a small place, and he wasn't gonna look a gift horse in the mouth. They probably thought these top of the line locks were enough, and he was tempted to laugh as he blazed through them.

He didn't see any cameras, either. Still, you never knew, so he kept his hood up and head down when he got inside.

Of course, he'd picked this one for a reason. A hospital was out of the question for obvious reasons, and even at a larger clinic, he'd have overnight workers to worry about, and animals to alert them to his presence. Even though it was small, he still had some ground to cover. It took him over fifteen minutes of rifling through cabinets and drawers to find what he was looking for.

Picking up the small vial, he held it up, trying to see it in the near dark of the exam room. Satisfied, he selected a few more, wrapping them carefully in gauze before tucking them in his jacket pocket. Well aware that the more time he spent there, the more likely it was he'd be caught, he snatched a few syringes and added them to his growing collection.

Satisfied that he got what he came for, he slipped back out the back door, carefully securing it.. Locking back up bought him some time; by the time they figured out something was missing, they'd assume one of the employees was at fault. Leaving the door open would make it look like the crime of a desperate addict, and he couldn't afford to have any cops nosing around the motel.

He headed off on foot, jogging to his parking spot a few blocks away. He started the car and headed back to the motel, trying hard not to jostle the salvation that lay in his pocket.

--

It was still on the bed when he got back, but not feigning disinterest anymore. Now those eyes followed him as he moved across the room. He tried hard to ignore the way the gaze burned into his back as he set a cloth across the small dresser and laid out the contents of his pockets.

"Sodium thiopental," he said, keeping his voice pitched low.

He left the syringes and vials on the counter and walked over to the side of the bed. Wordlessly he took away some of his extra precautions, namely, the duct tape. He expected screams when he peeled it off, but the only noise came in little gasps that belied the expressionless eyes.

He tried not to let his nerves show as he circled the bed. "I should probably be running an IV, but something tells me you won't be a willing patient."

His was trying to spook it, but the truth was, he was worried. He had never messed with this stuff before. Knew he was going out on a limb with one hell of a long shot, and hoping desperately it would provide him with answers and not end up killing the thing in the process.

He expected resistance as he grabbed its right hand, but he didn't get it. Still, he hurried as he carefully inserted the needle into the back of its hand, quickly setting up the catheter. He taped it down the best he could with surgical tape from his own first aid kit.

Another time he might have been amused at the efficiency with which he did this. Now there was too much riding on it.

The eyes followed him back to the dresser where he drew fluid into syringes. Suppressing a shudder, he performed the same ritual on each - holding it upside down, giving it a few good taps, and finally depressing the plunger to make sure there were no air bubbles.

He carried the syringes over to the bed in a towel, which he then set lightly on a chair within his reach.

Offering a silent prayer to whoever was willing to listen, Sam slid the needle into the catheter.

"Okay," he said softly, more to himself than to the thing. "This is just a test dose, to see how you're going to react."

It might have winced as he slid the needle out, then flushed the vein with some saline from one of the other syringes. He couldn't tell, because until the empty syringe was deposited in the trash, the other set on the chair, he couldn't tear his eyes away from the injection site.

But now he spared a glance and saw the things eyelids were already drooping. He waited to see how it reacted to the small dose. From what he saw there were no bad reactions, and it wore off fairly quickly, so he went ahead with the second dose.

He still went easy, not wanting to deal with a comatose, or dead, _thing_ just yet, but the second time seemed to be a charm. The eyelids dropped again, and watched him with just a little less distrust.

"How do you feel?" he asked tentatively. How was this supposed to work, anyway?

It just looked at him, confused.

"Hell," he cursed. "I don't have time for this. What are you?"

The lips parted, then closed, eyes blinking sluggishly.

Sam's hopes began to diminish. He whirled away, fisting his hands. "Dammit! Are you a demon? Why doesn't holy water work?"

"N-no."

He froze. The voice was small, with a rough quality he hadn't been able to hear in the whispers earlier. It was Dean's voice, but it wasn't.

He grasped for his next question. "Skinwalker?"

Again the voice came back, "No."

"What's your name?" Sam asked softly, barely able to breathe.

His heart almost stopped when it answered, "Dean."

It took him a few beats to collect his thoughts, and he had to remind himself he was working under time constraints.

"Dean?" he demanded in disbelief, spinning around, fueled by anger and a sharp surge of giddiness that threatened to bubble out of his chest.

"Winchester." And the name slurred slightly.

"Who told you to say that?" he asked, watching the face carefully.

Brows furrowed.

"It's my name?" said the Dean-thing, but he didn't sound so sure, voice stumbling at the effort of producing more than one word.

"If you're really Dean Winchester," Sam said slowly, "then you know what happened to him."

No answer.

"If you know what happened," he continued, "then you know that you can't possibly be sitting here trying to sell me this story."

No response.

He hesitated, but picked up the next syringe, inserted it into the catheter and injected, following swiftly with the saline. As he did so, the eyes came back to him, blinking drowsily again.

"Hurry up," Sam said. "I really don't want to have to kill you. Yet."

But for a minute he was afraid he'd given too much, too soon, because the eyes slipped closed and stayed that way for a while. He stepped forward, slapping lightly at its cheek. It started awake, and instinctively Sam jumped back.

"What are you?" he asked immediately.

It heaved a sigh and let it's eyelids droop.

"_What_ are you?!" Sam shouted. He was trying to be patient, but God, even as it's eyelids shot open, he wanted to punish it for this mimicry, for making him hope.

"Dean," it replied in a tired voice.

"Try again," he hissed, but skipped over that question. "What happened in the alley?"

"Got my ass kicked," it mumbled, and for a minute it sounded just like Dean, stumbling in after a few too many drinks.

For a minute he wanted to laugh, but if he gave in to that, he knew he'd be crying, and God he just really wanted this to be true. So instead he settled for another question. "How'd you get here?"

But the eyelids drifted shut again. Trying not to let the mix of emotions churning through him show, he slapped it again, gently this time.

"How did you get here?" he said again.

"Dunno," it muttered.

""What I can't understand," Sam said, standing up straight and pausing to crack his back. "Is how you just happen show up here, now. A little too much of a coincidence, don't you think? Out of nowhere, I just _happen_ run into someone who looks like my dead brother?"

The eyes snapped to his face, meeting his gaze for the first time. There was something unreadable in them, an emotion that was gone as quickly as it came, and the dead eyes slid away again.

"Not him," it said.

"So you admit it," Sam said softly.

He should have been glad, and he knew it. Things wouldn't be so complicated now. It would be just another job, not like dragging Old Yeller out back with his father's rifle. But when the hope he'd been fighting so hard to keep at bay actually drained away, it left him feeling lost. Until that moment he hadn't really understood just _how____much_ he wanted this to be his brother. How quickly he'd been willing to believe if he just got the right answers. A sign. An epiphany. Now, the moment he let himself feel that, he wished he could take it back.

Then the head shook, and judging by the twist in it's expression, regret immediately followed. It paused, taking in a ragged breath before saying, "No. _You."_

Sam eyed it warily, wanting more than anything for this to be over. Maybe if he got really, really drunk, he'd forget it ever happened. "Huh?"

"_You're_ not him," it said, still looking away.

Sam wasn't deaf; but that didn't mean he understood what it was saying. Nor did he miss the nervous tone that crept into the flat voice. It was just enough that he might not have noticed on anyone else, but this was Dean's voice, and some things you never forgot.

"I'm not... who?"

"_Look_ like him," it said, closing it's eyes. "But you're _not_."

This time, he could tell it wasn't from the drugs. This time, the fear was evident. Fists clenched against the bonds that held him in place, and somehow, he knew it wasn't gearing up for a fight.

"Not _who_?" Sam persisted.

No answer.

This time Sam didn't hesitate, giving the injection swiftly. He watched in silence as the fists relaxed, and gave it a minute before he was pulling him back, wondering how long this could go on.

No sooner had its eyes opened, Sam demanded again, "Who?"

He waited as it blinked slowly, but he had no patience for grogginess. He needed to know.

"_Who?_" he shouted.

The eyes widened and registered shock at the sudden outburst, but immediately went back to half mast.

"Okay," Sam said, more to himself than the thing, "calm down."

He did, forcing his breathing to even out, though his heart kept racing. After a beat, he tried again. "Not who?"

The name was no more than a sigh, but it reached his ears with the force of an explosion. And that was it... that was all it took for everything to change. Now the possibility wasn't a hope, it was very much real. It didn't matter that it might be a trick, or that he was being naive. Suddenly this Dean-thing tied up on the bed stopped being so much of a _thing _and started looking like _Dean._

It was impossible. So much so that Sam felt the world spin, thought he might be sick, and he almost dropped to the chair, before remembering it was loaded with syringes.

"But...I am," he said shakily. "I am Sam."

_I am Sam, but you're not Dean, right? Because you can't be?_

It - _Dean_? - sighed again, a forced exhalation.

"Been him before," he said. "Doesn't make you Sam."

And that made no sense, but it didn't matter, because he was obviously Sam, and all of it meant that this might just be Dean, and oh, _God._

Countless questions assaulted him, but all he could do was sit there and stare.

Dean.

It was Dean.

--

Another author's note : This is fiction, but I try to stay based in fact. Sodium thiopental has actually been used as a "truth serum", although I don't know how effective it really is. I thought Dean spilling his guts would be a little outlandish, so luckily this worked out. The way it affects the brain can make lying difficult, but not impossible, so it's not a truth serum, but it can make you more chatty!


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note : A special thank you to BigPink for pointing out some errors in the last chapter! I try to keep the typos to a minimum, but they do slip in sometimes, so I'll try to be more careful about that.

I was really pleased (and shocked!) at the amount of reviews I got for the last chapter! Very, very nice to see that all of my hard work is appreciated, and that there really is interest in this story. For those of you adding me to story alert and still not reviewing... I _see_ you! _sob_

Hehe, moving on, a ton of Impala cookies to you all. And yes, there will be some Dean POV soon.

Without further delay, chapter six!

--

Stifling a yawn, Sam scrubbed his eyes with his fingers, and tried to convince himself he wasn't tired. He'd pulled all nighters before - in college, on hunts, it was nothing new - but the added emotional drain was threatening to put him on his ass if he didn't slow down.

He'd spent the past few minutes hastily cleaning the room, disposing of the needles in a small box that had been in the bottom of the first aid kit for just that purpose for years. It had been a while since he'd needed to use it; needles were evidence that they could never afford to leave behind, but they were also rarely needed. Still, it served its purpose, and he tucked the syringes in his duffle bag, making a mental reminder to throw them in the next dumpster he saw. The rest of the drugs went into the dresser drawer, tucked inside a pair of socks so they didn't break, and then dismissed.

Once that was taken care of, he saw to Dean. It was still weird thinking about it, but dwelling on it only brought more questions to the surface, questions he wasn't ready to deal with yet. So he shoved them away and set about untying his brother.

He'd drifted off not long ago, no doubt thanks to the drugs. Sam felt uneasy, and checked his breathing, worried now. Maybe it had been stupid to pump him full of thiopentol, but he'd been operating under the assumption that _it_ had been something supernatural. He knew what he'd done was dangerous, but he had no idea what the complications could be, or how bad. He'd have to wake him up every so often, just to make sure. Drugs, too many blows to the head...

Better not to think about it.

He stepped back, staring. He'd been too busy to notice any details, but now that he had a moment, he was finally able to really _look _at Dean. It was unsettling. He looked almost the same as he did before. He didn't allow himself to think about what that meant, but focused on his face instead. He didn't look any older, really, just tired and dirty. Maybe a little thinner, and his skin was _definitely_ too pale, the dark smudges under his eyes standing out even among the dirt.

He sighed and got to work removing the catheter. The fact that he'd drugged his brother was almost easy to avoid, but now he found himself wondering why he'd had to. He didn't want to think about that, either, not yet.

Once the catheter was out, he dumped it in the bathroom trash and filled the empty ice bucket with water. Armed with that and a washcloth, he tackled the task of trying to clean him up a little. Dean was really dirty, but he did what he could, dabbing at the dried blood and dirt that covered his face. It wasn't perfect, but it was better, so he moved on.

The clothes were pretty much ruined, stained with dirt and blood; they would have to go. That wasn't what bothered him, though. It was the fact that there was so much of it he had no idea how to tell how much of it, if any, was Dean's.

He sighed and let the washcloth drop into the already dingy water of the ice bucket.

After a moment of contemplation, he decided he was going to have to cut it off. He retrieved the scissors from the first aid kit and slit the shirt up the middle.

He paused, frozen by what he saw.

"Holy..."

There was a fresh wound on his right side, and he realized quickly that Dean had carried the knife without a sheath. He'd drawn it in the fight, probably too fast to be careful, and knicked himself. The wound wasn't deep, wasn't even bleeding. That wasn't what had frozen him in place.

Dean had scars, just like Sam, just like every hunter did. It was inevitable that you picked some up along the way. But this was...God, this was new.

The tattoo, at once time a perfect match to the one on his own chest, was barely recognizable. Someone, or maybe some_thing_ was more accurate, had tried to cut away the ink. The result was a mass of scar tissue that effectively destroyed the protective ward.

He swallowed hard, drawing his eyes away only to catalogue the thin scar that ran the length of his sternum. This one was different, fresher, but still way past healed, a thin raised line that spoke of deliberate precision.

An incision.

_Jesus._

He tried to ignore them, to see past them and focus on the job at hand, but as he stared at the remains of the tattoo, his hands began to shake.

He set aside the scissors and took a deep breath, trying to calm down. It wasn't just the scars themselves. He knew the story behind most, if not all, of Dean's other scars. But these... he didn't know how he'd gotten them, or what he'd been through, and it was overwhelming him.

He felt the sting of tears, but refused to cry. He had more important things to do than sit around blubbering about things he had no control over.

Later, they could talk.

But now, he needed to act.

He set his jaw, and picked the washcloth up again. It might not be much, but for now, it was the best he could do.

--

He couldn't remember ever seeing a sky so blue, or grass so green. From where he lay in the open field, it was all he could see - blue, blue sky and lush green grass that cushioned his body. Dean folded his arms behind his head, tilting his face to the sky and sighing in content as the sun warmed his skin.

"What are you thinking, Dean?"

He smiled in reply. "Nothin'. That's the beauty of it."

His mother laughed, and turned his head to take in the sight of her. God, she was beautiful. She was standing a few feet away, wearing a white sun dress. Her hair was pulled back, making her look younger, almost angelic, even as the sky began to cloud over.

"It is beautiful," she agreed, but it was obvious that she was referring to the landscape, not a lazy afternoon. "Come dance with me, Dean."

He pushed himself to his feet, but stood there, shaking his head. "I don't dance, you know that."

She smiled at him, "Don't be silly, Dean... you used to dance with me all the time!"

"I did?"

She smiled and beckoned him closer.

"You were young," she said, pulling him into a swift, carefree dance across the grass. "I guess I shouldn't expect you to remember."

"Tell me," he urged, almost tripping over his own feet.

Mary Winchester laughed, not unkidly. "Oh, we'd dance all the time. Your father would come home from work some nights and I'd still be dancing you around the kitchen, dinner forgotten. I always thought he'd be mad, but he just laughed and told me he liked it better burnt . I swear, as long as I was happy, that man would eat cardboard."

Dean grinned back as they twirled. The breeze picked up, twisting around them as if it were a part of the dance.

"I'm so glad you're here, Dean," she said, stopping suddenly and pulling him into a tight embrace. "You won't leave me, will you?"

"No!" he said. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as he held her, breathing in her scent, and imagined her holding him this way when he was a baby. "Of course not."

"Never," she added, and he nodded his agreement.

Dean pulled back slightly, but she didn't let go, reaching out a hand to gently touch his cheek. "Mom?"

She smiled, but her eyes were sad, and he saw the first flame begin to lick at her chin.

"Mom!"

He tried to pull away, but her grip was an iron vise that would not let him go. He felt the heat climbing their bodies, but still she held on to him, fire reflected in her eyes.

His senses were on overload, the scream that escaped her mouth deafening, the fire that encompassed them too bright. The smell of burning skin clogged his nostrils, and he gagged, tasting it in the back of his throat.

All of that was nothing compared to the pain he felt when the fire touched his skin.

--

Sam didn't expect much when he gently shook Dean awake. Since he'd fallen asleep - passed out - he hadn't so much as stirred. Not even when he took he had to pull the remnants of the jacket and shirt off his brother. He'd always been a light sleeper, so that alone was cause to worry.

Instead, it was Sam who got the rude awakening. The minute his hands touched Dean's arm his brother's eyes shot open and he was in motion. He coupled the movement with a hoarse scream, and the next thing Sam knew, he was on the floor. It took him a moment to realize Dean had flipped him, grabbing the offending arm to pull Sam over his body, and roll him easily onto the floor.

Dazed, he sat up.

"Dude, it's just me - " he started, somewhat angrily. He'd hit his elbow on the wall, and the tingling was fading, bringing with it the familiar pain of a bruised funny bone. He stopped when he didn't see his brother. "Dean?"

He pulled himself to his feet, still rubbing his sore elbow. There was no sign of Dean in the small room, so he headed to the bathroom, worried he might be having a bad reaction to the thiopentol.

He didn't find his brother hunched over the toilet, though. He was pressed into the space between the sink and the wall, head bent down and hidden by the arms he'd wrapped around his knees.

"Dean?"

There was no indication that he'd been heard.

Sam hesitated in the doorway, feeling out of place and at a loss. "You feeling sick?"

He hated the way his voice came out sounding like a scared little boy, but for the life of him, he couldn't seem to control it. He had his brother back. Things were supposed to be okay now. Maybe not normal, but their lives had always been a bit off. Something dark and hopeless welled up inside him, guilt and fear and all that hope turning to dread. This was uncharted territory, all of it, and he'd been stupid to think it would be that easy.

"Dean?" he asked again, taking a tentative step forward.

Bare shoulders tensed as his footfall echoed on the tile. Dean's knuckles were white, gripping his forearms so tightly Sam thought he was going to cut off the circulation.

"Dean, it's okay," he said, knowing the words were lame. They were all he had, so he went on. "It's me..."

He knelt down, keeping a few feet in between them, and reached out to put a hand on Dean's knee. Again the reaction was startling, but he'd expected it, and quickly withdrew his hand. In turn, Dean's head snapped up and he tried to scoot further back, his hands bracing on the floor when he met the wall's resistance. He was breathing loudly, sucking in gasps of air, eyes searching for an exit.

"It's okay," Sam said again, keeping what he hoped was a soothing tone. "You're okay, you're safe."

But the look in Dean's eyes was wild, reminding Sam of an animal caught in a trap. He had the unsettling feeling that he was that trap. He was the source of Dean's fear.

He kept still. If he stood, he'd only look more intimidating, so he kept to the crouch, trying to make himself appear as small and harmless as possible.

"It's okay," he repeated, practically whispering now. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Dean. You're safe here."

But it was clear he wasn't making a difference. If anything, Dean's breathing grew louder, and his eyes wider, more anxious. Where he'd been so careful to avoid Sam's gaze before, he was staring now, almost transfixed, directly at him.

There was no recognition.

"Come on, Dean, please," he pleaded, trying not to raise his voice. "Give me something here, man! I don't know what to do."

Dean's hand went to his tattoo in such a way Sam didn't think he was even conscious of the motion. Shaking fingers moved hesitantly, and when they met the scarring, they rested almost sadly. Sam watched those fingers rub gently at the remains of the tattoo, and he came to a realization.

Whether he'd mean to or not, Dean gave him an idea. He reached up to tug down the neck of his shirt, revealing his own tattoo. His fingers brushed against the amulet he always wore beneath his shirt, but it offered little comfort now. He didn't know what he was hoping for, but the sight seemed to calm his brother slightly - until he began shaking his head vehemently, ducking down to hide his face in his arms again.

He went down on his knees, reaching out to close the distance between them. "Dean, you're okay!"

This time he was prepared, and blocked the arms that swung his way, not trying to land punches, more wild attempts to push him away. At this point he didn't know how much his touch would help or hinder, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He felt tears course their way down his face, and knew that his heart was breaking, watching his brother struggle against him.

"Please," he sobbed, trying to grab Dean's arms. "I'm not going to hurt you! Please, you're my _brother._"

But this pale, scared creature huddled against the wall of a bathroom in a run-down motel was not the same man he'd known, and he had no idea how to get him back.

So even though it hurt, he pulled away.

Dean quieted almost immediately, watching him with anxious eyes, following him as he stood, and retreated to the room.

When he returned with the salt, he spoke in hard tones. "You don't think I am, do you?"

_Your brother..._

"Fine." He poured a line of salt across the threshold, set the box of salt just outside. He sat just outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall. "I'll stay here for now."

Dean peeked over his arms, watching him warily. Then, quickly, he scrambled into the bathtub.

The act would have made Sam laugh once upon a time. But now it only served to drive the message home. To his brother, Sam meant danger, something to put as much distance as possible between. Even if it was only a few feet and the rim of a bathtub.

"Go ahead," Sam said casually. "Test me."

The truth was, he wanted to hear his brother work those words from behind his lips. It would be a cold comfort, but he would take what he could get.

He didn't even try.

"I can cross that line anytime I want," Sam warned. "But I won't. And I'm not going anywhere until you're ready to."

--

Somewhere along the line, he'd managed to fall asleep, losing the waiting game. Now he had a hell of a crick in his neck and not much else to show for it. There was daylight trying to shine through the curtains, and he had no idea what time it was, or how long he'd been asleep.

Dean was still hugging his knees in the tub, watching his every move. Sam had no idea how much he'd slept, if at all, but judging by his bloodshot eyes, it wasn't much. He stretched, giving the appearance of disinterest, and checked his watch.

"Little after nine," he said out loud, in case Dean was wondering. His voice sounded loud, and he cleared his throat. "You ready to let me in?"

No answer.

Inwardly he sighed. Of course not, because he couldn't catch a fucking _break_.

_Right, Sam, because Dean's had so many._

He told his brain to shut up and stood, stretching again to work the kinks out of his muscles. He was starving, but didn't know that Dean would stay where he was if he left even long enough to grab breakfast. He couldn't take the chance that he'd run, couldn't take not knowing where he was, not again.

He steadied himself, and walked to his duffle for clean clothes.

"You hungry?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

He wanted to laugh because this was Dean, and the one constant he knew he could count on was his infamous stomach. He actually smiled, and sorted through his clothes for something that might fit Dean. They weren't all that far apart in size, but Sam's jeans would be too long, his shirts a little tight on Dean's broad shoulders.

After a minute, he decided it didn't much matter, and balled a pair of jeans and a plain grey t-shirt in his hands. He returned to the bathroom with them, tossing them onto the floor without crossing the line. "Here, thought you might want something to wear."

Dean looked down at himself, as if he only just noticed he was wearing only dirty, blood stained jeans. He looked at, but didn't move for the clothes.

"I'm going to get some breakfast," Sam said casually. "So you better think about what you want to do, because at some point, I'm gonna need in there."

He turned to walk away, but tossed over his shoulder, "And take a shower... you reek."

Acting so unaffected was taking a toll on him. That, coupled with the lack of sleep, was threatening to break his resolve. Sighing, he judged the distance between the motel's office and the room. After careful deliberation, he decided it wasn't too risky to duck in there and grab some of their complimentary breakfast. He could keep an eye out and if he saw Dean making a break for it, he would be close enough to stop it.

He jogged over and stepped inside, nodding to the person at the desk before checking out the spread. He had no idea what Dean might want, so he hastily picked out a few items, balancing them in his arms.

"Hey," a voice called as he shoved a bottle of orange juice in his jacket pocket.

He looked up to see the lady at the front desk eyeing him.

"We got a few complaints last night about screaming," she said, leaning over the desk to talk to him. "You hear anything weird?"

A plastic wrapped set of cutlery joined the orange juice. He furrowed his brow a bit, taking a moment before replying, "Not really. I mean, I heard some... _noise_ from the people beside me, so I guess that could be it."

He flashed her an embarrassed grin and she laughed. "Well, as long as it didn't bother you."

"Bother? Not really," he said, heading for the door. "Kept me up a while, but what're you gonna do?"

She laughed a goodbye and he jogged back to the room, holding his breath. Dumping the contents of his arms on the dresser he hurried to the bathroom door. He sighed in relief when he saw Dean sitting there hugging his knees to his chest. He hadn't showered, but he was wearing the clean clothes, and there was a very dirty towel laying in one corner.

"I, uh, I got breakfast," he said softly.

Dean watched him closely, and he was pleased to note the wild look from the night before wasn't present today. Still wary, though, still afraid.

"Okay," he whispered. "We'll go slow."

He stepped over the line of salt, watching the reaction in his eyes. They went wide, first, as if he hadn't expected Sam was telling the truth. The fear was still very much present, but he held his ground.

Sam knelt again, and Dean pressed into the tub. Sam suspected he was one step away from crawling back in, so he held his hands up in surrender, and again tugged the neck of his shirt down. "It's just me."

Dean's lower lip trembled, and the look he put Sam on edge. He'd rarely seen Dean without his guard up, and seeing emotions like this cross his face was alien, unsettling. But to see fear in those eyes, and know he was the source... it hurt more than he could dream. _God_, it hurt.

"I don't know how else to show you, Dean," Sam pleaded. "It's _me._"

Dean lowered his head again, hiding his face in his arms, and Sam almost missed the muffled voice.

"Dead."

He sounded broken...

Sam walked on his knees, moving just a little bit closer. "You're not dead, Dean."

"Sam..."

"Yeah?" he spoke too fast, sounding too desperate. "What, Dean?"

"No. _Sam."_

"I am Sam..." It took him a moment to realize what he meant. "No! Dean, I'm not dead! I'm right here."

Dean looked up, eyes accusing. Clearly seeing was not believing.

He reached out, telling Dean, "I'm not going to hurt you."

Dean flinched when Sam grabbed his hand, but didn't fight him, and he considered that major progress. He pulled Dean's hand over, pressing it against his chest. "See?"

He tried to pull back, but Sam kept a firm but gentle grip on his wrist, holding his hand in place. Beneath the palm, his heart was beating maybe a little too fast, but very much alive.

Dean wasn't sold, but when he removed his hand, he didn't pull back immediately, lingering, and watching intently, even turning his head as if he might hear the beat of the heart beneath Sam's shirt.

Absently, his hand rubbed the spot where his had been, and Sam felt a little hope return. Dean lifted his head to look at him again. This time he saw the recognition he'd hoped for, his own hope reflected in those hazel eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer : Throwing another one of these in here to say I don't own the copyrighted stuff, and the idea of Dean back from Hell has been done. Most of what remains is mine. Minus the orange juice. That's all Tropicana pure premium! Or... whatever.

Author's Note : As always triple thanks to everyone who's reviewed. It's a thrill to read them and know that my story is being enjoyed, so if you're reading, please take the time to leave me a review. It's really the best motivation there can be for writing more and they never go unappreciated!

Also, it's like 3 in the morning, so... this is going up in a hurry. :)

Impala cookies all around, and please enjoy the feature presentation.

--

Sam felt stupidly nervous as he sorted through the various breakfast items he'd picked up, righting the small bottles of orange juice he'd dumped on the dresser. He stared for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts as he watched bubbles of air move along the plastic. He didn't know if Dean would want donuts, or bagels, so he'd grabbed each, and even a few of those mini cereal boxes before he realized he didn't have any milk.

Now Dean was sitting on the bed where Sam had settled him, just staring at the ground. The silence was thick, hanging in the air like fog, and he longed to break through it. No matter how much he wanted to, he just couldn't figure out what to say.

He turned around, offering some juice to Dean. "Thirsty?"

Dean looked at the proffered bottle, expression blank.

Sam cleared his throat before setting it on the bed next within easy reach. "I didn't know what you'd want, so... take your pick."

He chose a bagel for himself, butchering it into halves and dug a tiny plastic tub from his pocket, using the plasticware smear a meager amount of cream cheese on top. With his own bottle of juice he retreated to the chair and small table, giving Dean some space.

The bagel tasted like cardboard, and he had to swallow hard to get it down, but that could have been him. It was discomfiting to watch Dean sit there, head bowed, hands in his lap. He choked down another bite with the aid of some juice.

As he chewed, he wondered what he should do. First order of business would probably be getting out of town. He didn't think he'd have trouble; it was still too soon for the clinic to notice anything, but watching over his shoulder every minute was not something he needed to deal with right now. He'd make a quick call to a hunter he knew not far from here, ask him to take over on the gig he knew he couldn't finish. He didn't like skipping out on a job, but it'd be a simple salt and burn, not a big deal.

Then what? Where to go, and what to do?

They needed to sort out a hell of a lot, but he'd start small. Take Dean someplace relatively quiet, let him rest up, and then they could get into the nitty gritty. Hell, he needed to get him talking first.

He swallowed the last of the bagel and looked over at Dean. He hadn't moved. Sam sighed, wondering if that was a good sign or bad. He hadn't tried to take off, but he wasn't exactly friendly. Could he trust him to stay put while he showered, or was Dean still hung up on the demon thing?

And that just brought a whole new string of questions. Namely, what had Dean been through that he wasn't jumping in relief at his release?

He stood, brushing crumbs off his jeans. "I'm gonna hit the head, and then we'll go, okay?"

He kept the door cracked, listening intently for any sound of movement in the outer room, even as he washed his hands and dried them on the sole clean towel. He was able to breathe a sigh of relief when he hurried out and saw that Dean hadn't moved.

_Okay, good... I think._

Dean hadn't touched his juice, and all the food was still on the dresser. He frowned, but didn't say anything, wrapping some of it up in napkins to take with them and quickly packing his things.

He pulled the door open and motioned with his head. "C'mon."

Dean watched him silently, and he thought he might have another problem to deal with, but after a moment, he got up. Sam couldn't help but notice how stiff his movements were.

After locking the door, he walked over to the car, putting his duffle in trunk. When he closed the lid, he saw Dean standing in front of the Impala, a look Sam couldn't quite place on his face.

"Missed your baby, huh?" he asked, faking cheerfulness. "Come on, get in."

He opened the passenger door for his brother, then walked to his own side. He waited there until Dean slowly walked over before sliding into the driver's seat. It took another long pause before he climbed awkwardly into the car.

He drove the short distance to the office and parked in front. "I'm gonna go check out... just wait here, okay?"

He hurried into the lobby, keeping an eye on the car the whole time. The clerk tried to make small talk, but he just smiled politely as he passed her some bills. She handed him his slip and he tried not to run as he returned her goodbye.

He felt the weight lift briefly when he saw that Dean was still in the car. He got back in, trying to ignore the fact that Dean was pressed against the door, literally as far away from Sam as he could be.

"Okay," he said, starting the Impala. "Where to?"

Of course there was no answer. He shrugged and pulled out of the lot. They'd figure it out on the way.

--

Turned out it was pretty easy to pick a location. After the events of the previous night, and a few hours sleep propped against a wall, Sam was too tired to drive very far.

He was almost hesitant to stop so soon. The silence in the car was awful, but he'd turned the radio to a classic rock station, hoping it would offer familiarity if not comfort. Sam knew he had to be tired, but the entire trip Dean hadn't nodded off, just sat stiffly, staring out the windshield. To think, all those times he thought he'd never miss Dean's off key sing alongs... now he was missing them terribly.

It was still early afternoon by the time he'd checked them into a somewhat upscale hotel that claimed to have the 'best rates in town!'. He shivered as he walked back to the car, and looked up at the sky. There was definitely rain in the forecast.

He grabbed his duffle from the trunk and then opened Dean's door for him. Almost mechanically Dean stepped out and fell into place behind Sam. It was creepy, but at least he wasn't running in the opposite direction.

"We're in 201," he said aloud for Dean's benefit, hefting his duffle.

Softer footfalls matched his own, Dean's worn heels echoing in time with Sam's newer boots. He opened the door and let them in, surveying the room as he ushered his brother inside.

It had been a long time since he'd needed to get a double, and it felt weird. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shed the unease.

He looked over at Dean, who stood just inside the door, shivering slightly.

"Shit," he said, dropping his bag. "I'm an idiot."

He pulled out a thermal shirt and threw it to Dean. Almost comically, it bounced off his chest and hit the floor. Sam scooped it back up and put it directly in his hands this time.

"You had to be freezing," he said, closing Dean's fingers around the shirt. Come to think of it, they did feel like ice. "Sorry, dude."

Dean turned the soft material over in his hands, staring at it.

"Right," Sam said, snapping his fingers. "You probably want a shower first."

He got Dean some clean clothes out of his bag. Eventually he was going to have to do something about getting him his own clothes. Dean's old jacket and shirt were ruined, the jeans too stained to salvage. He'd left the soiled garments in a dumpster behind a gas station when he'd stopped to fuel up. The only thing Dean wore right now that was his were the scuffed boots.

As he guided his brother to the bathroom, he couldn't help but think how, before, Dean would have snapped something at him. Probably something like "I'm not a child!" As it was, he just let the hand on his shoulder usher him into the bathroom.

Sam closed the door behind him, heard it lock. Okay, so his Dean's brain was functioning enough to secure himself behind a flimsy plywood door. That was of small consolation.

He leaned against the wall, and his hand snaked under the neck of his shirt, going for the amulet. Pulling it out, he closed his hand around it, feeling the soft bite of metal into his palm. It was the one thing he hadn't gotten rid of. He still had the car, but anything belonging to Dean had been wiped clean. His tapes were packed away in a box, shoved in his old duffle along with all of his old clothes. He hadn't been able to get rid of them, so they were sitting in storage at Bobby's. The older man hadn't questioned him, just taken the duffle, treating it as if it were fragile, and agreed to keep it until Sam made a more permanent decision.

The amulet he hadn't taken off, not since he'd slipped it on the morning after Dean... after he was gone. He hadn't even thought about it last night, but he guessed Dean would want it back now. Or, he would eventually.

In the bathroom, he heard the water start, and breathed a sigh of relief. Now he could move away from his post outside the door.

He sat on one of the beds, digging in the drawer of the night stand for a phone book. Something told him Dean wasn't up for dinner out, so he ordered a pizza, plain cheese, figuring his stomach probably wouldn't be up for anything more.

After making sure he had cash, he stretched out on the bed, flicking the TV on to wait.

He woke sometime later to a sharp rap on the door. Startled, he sat up in bed, realizing he'd fallen asleep. He snagged the money from his pocket and opened the door.

"Fifteen thirty," the delivery man said, not even acknowledging Sam.

He handed over the money, and received a very hot box in return. The guy walked off without even offering Sam change for his twenty. Watching after him, Sam muttered a disgruntled, "Keep the change."

He set the box on the bed and glanced at his watch.

"Shit," he muttered. Thirty five minutes had passed. An awful long time for a shower, even for a man as dirty as Dean, and the water was still going.

He was at the door before he even thought about it, rapping on the wood. "Dean?"

Of course there wouldn't be an answer. He knocked again, calling out his brother's name and trying not to freak out. But for all he knew Dean had managed to wiggle his way out the tiny window, and was long gone.

"Screw this," he said, and dug out his wallet.

The door was pathetic, and he could have easily kicked it in, but he couldn't afford to pay for damages. Besides, if Dean _was_ still in there, he didn't want to scare him any more.

A quick wiggle of the credit card - _thank you Jim Morrison - _and the door swung open.

Dean huddled naked in the tub, hugging his knees to his chest, shivering. He was bent forward, and from there, Sam could see the bumps of his spine sticking out amongst dozens of scars. The kind of long, thick lines that spoke of whipping.

"Shit," he said again, rushing forward. He didn't even want to know.

He turned off the water, running cold by now, and grasped his brother's shoulders, shaking him every so slightly. "Dean?"

In response to the touch, Dean tried to scramble away, but Sam held him, repeating his name.

He looked up, hair plastered to his forehead, beads of water clinging to spiky lashes, and Sam was struck by just how young and fragile his older brother looked. "Dean, are you alright? What happened?"

His brother's eyes were glazed, but focused on a point level with Sam's chest. He followed the gaze down, and realized Dean was looking at his neck.

Shaking fingers reached out, tentatively touching the amulet that hung from it's cord. It swung backward slightly, and Dean looked up further, meeting his eyes. He was shocked to see what wavered behind that flat expression.

"S-Sam?"

He didn't know if the stutter came from cold or apprehension, but he just nodded dumbly in reply.

Dean's arms came around his neck in a desperate embrace and Sam didn't even care that his brother was naked, sitting in the bathroom of an overpriced two star hotel, back from God knows where. Or that he was battered and bruised, scarred and _off_. Why, and how, none of that was important just then.

He just held on.

--

_Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus._

It was him, was actually _him._

He'd been showering, a pathetic attempt at humanity, but he felt dirty, stank of things he wanted to forget, and he didn't remember the last time he'd had hot water. Maybe it hadn't been worth the risk, but he'd done it anyway. He pretended the best he could that things were normal, but he was running on little sleep, food, or will, and the next thing he knew, the door flew open, and there he was.

It was impossible, there was no way... but the amulet...

He felt like a great weight had been lifted from his chest, but alternately settled in back of his mind. He didn't remember much of the night before; a fight, maybe, and then running into the familiar, and frightening face that spelled trouble. Some of the interrogation, but barely. Fire in his veins, and questions he couldn't remember, answers he couldn't recall.

Then he'd woken suddenly, rudely, and been thrown into chaos.

The whole day he'd been in a fog, going along with "Sam", knowing that at any minute the charade could be over, and not knowing what to expect out of it. He only knew it was better not to resist.

But the minute he'd seen the amulet, he'd known._ Known._

He hadn't had it on going into hell and they'd never dug that one out of him. He guessed it just wasn't important enough to register, but the sight of it told him all he needed to know.

Sam had helped him stand, even dried him off, sparing him any awkward talk or embarrassment as he stood there shivering. He'd let himself be led into the main room, lowered onto one of the beds. Now, dressed in jeans, a thermal shirt, and one of Sam's hoodies, he was still shaking.

It couldn't be real. He couldn't let it be real.

Was it real?

How could it be real?

His mind was going a mile a minute and he was starting to feel sick. When Sam - _real Sam? fake Sam?_ - offered him a slice of pizza, all he could do was shake his head. He had sitting on the end of the bed, but he suddenly felt exposed. Too much space around him, but the room was so small. He scooted backwards until his back was pressed against the headboard, and drew his knees to his chest.

Sam eyed him, and he vaguely heard his voice asking if he was okay.

He might have nodded. Couldn't be sure.

Of course, that wasn't true. He wasn't okay. Was very far from it.

He just wanted to sleep... what little sleep he'd gotten, he thought must be the result of his pounding head, the scabbing scrape he felt if he ran his hand over his forehead. He wouldn't sleep otherwise. Not even with the safety net line of salt; he'd watched Sam the whole time.

But now Sam was here. Maybe it would be okay to sleep now.

His eyes felt heavy, and he blinked, trying to clear his mind. Before he could argue, they were sliding shut again, and he was drifting...


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note : Sorry this chapter took so long to post but I promise I'll try not to let it happen again. Thanks to everyone who is taking the time to review... it really means a lot to me to know that you're enjoying the story! I guess it's going to turn into a long one, but hey, we have all summer, and this is a good way to kill time!

So, with another apology, here's the next installment! I like to think it's worth the wait, let me know what you think!

--

Sam chewed thoughtfully, working diligently at his pizza without really tasting it. Dean had fallen asleep in an incredibly awkward situation, and he was debating whether or not he should try moving him. Dean had always been like their dad that way - able to sleep whenever and where ever he could : scrunched up in the front seat of the Impala, even standing against a wall one time. But man, he'd feel it in the morning.

He finished his slice and brushed crumbs off his jeans, deciding against moving Dean. He didn't want another incident like last night, and who knew when the last time he'd gotten any sleep was. Better just to leave him, even if it meant he'd have one hell of a kink in his neck come morning.

He shoved the remaining pizza in the mini fridge. He wasn't all that hungry anymore, and Dean would need something in the morning. How long since he last ate?

Sam glanced at his watch, checked it by the motel clock. It was way too early for bed, but since when did he keep a normal schedule? He was beat, and the bed was inviting.

He checked the door and window, then laid a line of salt, more for Dean's benefit than actual worry. They could figure things out later, when they both had more than a few hours rest between them.

--

"Dean..."

The voice was persistent, and he'd been taught well. He opened his eyes.

John Winchester stared back at him in disappointment and disgust. "Did you do this, son?"

He looked down, saw the knife in his hands, the body at his feet. He wanted to deny it. Say 'of course it wasn't, how could you even ask that?' But he couldn't force the words out, because the blood on the knife was still warm. He knew, because it wasn't only on the knife - it was on his hand, wet, hot, slick.

His stomach lurched, and he barely turned his back on the sight before throwing up.

"Dean..." John's voice held warning, threat of punishment.

He sobbed, shook his head in disbelief as he spit the foul taste from his mouth

"You were supposed to protect him," John grabbed his arm, voice quiet but laced with acid. "Not _kill_ him."

Dean felt the iron grip around his elbow yank him to his feet, push him stumbling a few feet, then force him back to his knees.

_"Look _what you've _done_," John hissed. There was sorrow in his voice, but it was hidden beneath the anger.

There in the grass, sprawled out on his back, was Sam. The knife that killed him was still clenched in Dean's hand. Try as he might, he couldn't drop it.

"You killed him, Dean," John said, taking a step away from him. "You killed your brother."

"N-no," Dean said, shaking his head again. "Sammy?"

Sam's eyes were open, seeing nothing, yet staring at him, wide and accusing.

"God, you really are worthless, aren't you?" John seethed in disgust, circling his son. "But that wasn't enough, was it? You're a _murderer_, Dean."

"You're not even human..." and just like that, the Colt was in his hands.

"No, Dad!" Dean cried. "I'm not a demon, I didn't mean to hurt him! Dad, _please_!"

He heard the shot. Less than a second later, the bullet entered his brain.

--

Sam woke up to the sound of Dean's scream. Far more effective than an alarm, it had him shooting out of bed, nearly fallings as his legs tangled in the covers. It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the numbers on the clock radio.

_8:15._

He fumbled for the lamp on the bed side table, managed to click it on. The light blinded him for a moment, and he shielded his eyes, catching a glimpse of Dean, kneeling on top of the rumpled covers. His hair was mussed, face tracked with tears, and the wild look in his eyes was back.

"Dean, calm down!" he shouted.

Dean whirled on him, arms outstretched to keep him away, and Sam cursed, seeing all the progress they'd made vanish at the sight of him.

"No, no," he said, holding out his own hands in a show of peace. "It's me, Dean, remember? It's Sam."

Dean searched him wildly, eyes wide, and he held his breath. There was a moment where he was afraid he was going to have to go through the whole thing again, but then relief crossed his brother's face. He launched off the bed, his hand going for Sam's neck.

Sam had to force himself not to block the blow, but Dean had no intention of hurting him. Instead, one hand closed around the amulet he'd forgotten to return. His eyes were still wide, glassy as he searched Sam's face, then looked down between them, the fingers of his free hand touching Sam's chest briefly.

Then he stepped backward, breathing ragged. He looked so lost it made Sam's heart ache.

"Dean?" he asked softly.

Like a shot, he was off again, this time crossing the room to dig through Sam's duffle.

Sam stepped cautiously behind him. "What are you looking for, Dean?"

He didn't answer, his motions hurried, audibly gasping now. Sam had seen his fair share of panic attacks, but he even if he hadn't, he knew his brother was freaking out. Capital F, capital O.

"Dean?" he tried again, moving in front of him and kneeling down to face him across the duffle. "Tell me what you're looking for and I'll find it for you."

Dean looked at him, eyes tortured, but didn't respond. Sam felt bad, as if Dean was asking him in plain terms, and he just wasn't getting it.

He finally got it when Dean came up with Ruby's knife. He wondered again what the story behind that was, but shoved that from his mind. There would be time for that later. Dean seemed to calm slightly as he held the knife, so he stuffed the items he'd rifled through back in the bag.

He turned up just in time to see Dean bring the knife down in a savage slash. Blood immediately began to spill from his wrist.

"Shit!" He jumped to his feet and grabbed the knife from Dean, careful not to cut himself in the process, and threw it to the floor. He pulled Dean with him to the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel and pressing it against the wound. Dean, on the other hand, was staring back to where the knife had fallen to the floor.

"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam cried angrily, putting pressure on the gash.

His brother flinched away, and he immediately regretted the harsh tone. But seriously, what did he expect after that display, a congratulation?

"Shit," he muttered again, lifting the towel to look at the wound. The blood was already slowing, and he could see now that it wasn't _too_ deep.

Dean was staring at his arm now, looking almost shocked. As if he'd looked down and suddenly discovered a tentacle had grown while he slept.

"Damn it Dean," Sam said softly, sadly. "What were you trying to do, man?"

He started to pull away, and Sam followed his gaze to the knife on the floor.

"No!" he said sharply. Maybe too sharply, because Dean was flinching away again, shoulders hunched. He forced himself to breathe. "You lost knife privileges, dude."

He lifted the towel again. Satisfied with what he saw, he pressed back down, then grabbed Dean's hand, lifting it to replace his own. "Hold that."

He trotted back into the room, picking up the knife on his way. He dropped it back in his bag and retrieved the first aid kit. Was he going to have to hide all the knives? Shit, he didn't even want to think about that.

He cleaned the wound with hydrogen peroxide - not knowing where Ruby's knife had been was seriously giving him the creeps - then wrapped the gash in clean gauze, pulling his sleeve down over it.

He pushed him down onto the edge of the tub. "Sit."

He cleaned up the mess, wiping spots of blood from the floor and washing out the towel as best he could before rinsing out the sink. When he was finished, he turned to his brother. They were getting into a bad habit of bathroom confrontations.

"Dean, I need you to tell me why you did that," he said seriously, closing the lid of the toilet so he could sit at Dean's level.

His brother toyed with his sleeve, eyes downcast.

Sam sighed, any rest he'd gotten was quickly being replaced with more tension. "Okay, dude. I need you to talk to me. Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

_Ugh, nice form, Sam._

There was a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

"You don't know?" Sam asked.

Dean hung his head, but shook it again, more adamantly.

"You... weren't trying to?" he tried.

A single nod.

"Coulda fooled me," he muttered.

The chirp of his phone ended the conversation before it began. He very rarely got social calls, but it was hard to walk away from this, even for 'business'. He shot a look at Dean, a cross between _this isn't over_ and _sorry, duty calls._ "Wait here, okay?"

--

He should have done what he was told, but it didn't stop him from moving. Too afraid to try his luck much further, he straddled the threshold, peeking out from behind the doorjamb. Sam glanced back, and he fought the urge to jump back into the bathroom, slam the door, and lock it behind him. Speaking in quiet tones, Sam held up one finger before slipping quietly out the front door.

Torn, Dean hesitated briefly before padding across the floor and digging through Sam's bag. He retrieved the knife and hurried back to the bathroom, breathing a sigh of relief.

He stroked the flat blade, keeping his fingers safely away from the sharp edge. though his arm throbbed, he didn't regret making the cut. This knife could kill a demon, so even a good nick like that would have had some kind of effect, and he was still here, right?

_Questionable._

His hand went to the tattoo. Beneath the layers of clothing, he couldn't feel the scar tissue, but it was there all the same. Didn't matter anyway, because his fingertips had long memorized the touch. Without fail, every time he was alone, every time he was really himself_,_ actually _in_ his body, he would find himself absently rubbing his chest. Now he dug the heel of his hand in, trying to ease the ache that never left. Even this phantom touch brought back the sick sensation of something sharp tearing in, gouging away his humanity.

He might not know Hell from a hand basket, but he knew not everyone went in with their body intact. His father had been living proof of that. So to speak. He didn't know for sure why they'd made an exception in his case, but he had a feeling. The first thing they'd done was strip away his safety. The second thing was to get inside of him.

Being possessed by a demon wasn't so much painful, but it was traumatizing. It was a sense of all encompassing wrongness. Your body invaded, and just like that, you're paralyzed. Suddenly you're shoved to the back of your mind like an interloper. The presence... something else, something you know should not be there, but it is, pushing against your consciousness.

It was an absolute lack of control, and they wanted you to know it.

It was a tool, and an effective one, but they didn't use it often; just enough to remind you that they _could._

He shuddered, flattened his palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating far too fast. He could still hear their laughter echoing unspoken in his ears. He could feel their presence lingering, creeping fingers that made his skin crawl.

Sam had seen the scars, he knew, and that only made the crawling worse. All the questions were making his stomach knot, and it was only a matter of time before he asked about them, too.

Why? He wanted to know why?

How did you tell your brother you were afraid you weren't _real?_

Right now his grip on reality was razor thin, and he was dancing on the edge. He was able to recognize that, but half the time he didn't know where he was. Even now he didn't know if he could believe it.

_What if if none of it's real?_

His mind whirled, and he let out a pained whimper, pressing his hand hard against his chest. He willed it all to stop, but his body betrayed him, and went on breathing like it never stopped.

The front door slammed, and he jumped, fist closing around the knife.

"Dean? Can you come here?"

His heart sped up, if it had ever slowed down, and he tightened his grip around the knife. He sounded frustrated. When Sam saw the knife, he'd be angry. More than anything he wanted to hide the knife and avoid confrontation, but his mind told him not to take that chance. Not when he had a real weapon at his disposal.

He breathed deeply and stepped from the bathroom.

His eyes narrowed, and Dean knew he'd spotted the knife.

"Dean..." he stopped, sighed, and finally sat on the bed, looking defeated. "That was Bobby."

_Bobby..._

"I called him, after I found you, I mean. I didn't know what to do. He told me to kill you, and I knew he was right," Sam spoke slowly, wringing his hands in his lap. "I thought there was no way it could be you. You had to be something else."

He swallowed.

Sam looked up, gaze intense. "I'm not going to lose you again, so if you're planning on doing something with that knife, it better be wood carving."

Startled, Dean realized his face wanted to smile. Muscle memory, nothing more, because he felt no humor, just mild surprise, and no idea how to deal with it.

"I haven't told him you're back," Sam said, shrugging. "He won't believe it yet, and I can't convince him when you're... like this."

He focused on his feet, feeling ashamed.

"No, Dean, I don't mean it like that," he said quickly. Then his voice took on a pained tone. "It's just... Bobby might not be so easy to convince. He knows how much I wanted it to be true, he'd think I was letting myself believe something that wasn't true. And he'd see you, and he wouldn't see Dean."

Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "This is really hard, Dean. God. You wake up and you don't know it's me. I don't know what to do. So if you don't want to talk right now, that's okay, all right? It would be nice if you did, but you don't have to. But we need to do something about the rest."

He nodded once.

"I don't know..." he trailed off, hesitating. "I guess it's pretty hard to believe it's really me. I didn't believe you were you, either. After what I did, I understand why you're afraid of me."

Dean frowned, but before he could think any further, Sam was speaking again, and his mind backpedaled, trying to keep up.

"I didn't know how to make you talk," he sighed. "I didn't have time to wait, and I just knew I couldn't hurt you, even if it turned out you were, uh, someone else. I read about the sodium thiopentol thing, and... I just didn't have any other option."

From the very deep in the recesses of his mind, a memory came to him. He'd seen it in some movie of the week spy flick. In the movie, they called it a truth serum. He'd asked his Dad about it, and he'd laughed, told him to get his information from reputable sources. His memory wasn't that great, but he thought it was supposed to block higher brain function or something. He knew that it didn't work like it did in the movie. And that it was used in lethal injection. Sam had used that on him?

Thinking about it made his head hurt, so he stopped.

"...don't have to forgive me," Sam was saying. "but it's not going to happen again. I'm not going to hurt you. You know that, right?

He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. He wanted Sam to know he was trying, but he _didn't_ know.

Sam sighed wearily. "God, I'm tired. Are you gonna be okay while I...?"

He heard the unspoken questions. _Are you going to run off? Are you going to freak out and hurt yourself? Are you going to kill me in my sleep?_

He climbed on to his bed, and gave the only show of comfort he could - he slipped the knife beneath his pillow.

He watched as Sam nodded once and then disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the water turn on and spent the next fifteen minutes fighting the pull of sleep.

Sam returned, hair damp, and in his sleeping attire, and he watched as he checked the lines of salt at the window and door. He was grateful for the added protection, but it wasn't enough to put him at ease. Doubted anything would ever again.

Sam flopped down on the bed, reaching for the light before pausing. "Do you want me to leave this on?"

He wanted to shake his head. Wanted not to need the light, because light wasn't salvation. It couldn't protect you, it just let you see the attack before it came. But after so long in the dark, he gave a feeble nod, relieved when Sam's hand withdrew.

"Goodnight, Dean."

Sam slept.

Dean kept watch.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's Note : I still don't own Supernatural, so please no sue-age!

Hope you guys will forgive the absence, I've had this written for a while but I was stuck on a chapter and didn't know what I might need to change. Never fear, I'm not quite so stuck any more, so this, and future chapters hopefully won't take so long to post. I'd like to finish before Season 4 debuts, after all.

Each and every review is appreciated and used to stoke the creative fires!

--

_"How you holdin' up, Sam?" _

He had to think about that one for a minute. He'd ducked outside when Bobby called, and already he had to stomp his feet in attempt to ward off the chill of early morning.

"I'm okay," he lied. "Got a job I'm looking into, nothing big, but it's something."

_"You know that's not what I mean," _Bobby's voice came back, sounding tinny over the phone.

He shrugged, knowing Bobby couldn't see it. "I'm... working through it."

There. Definitely not the truth, but not exactly a lie, either.

A sigh from the other end of the line was followed by Bobby speaking gruffly. _"You know you did the right thing, Sam."_

He laughed drily, staring across the parking lot. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, Bobby."

He said goodbye and stuffed the phone back in his pocket, eager to get back in the room. Dean hadn't woken him up screaming that morning, but he still wasn't eager to leave him on his own right now. He had a feeling his brother hadn't slept at all, and that was the reason he woke up with the sunshine and not threat of bodily harm.

When he shut the door behind him, Dean didn't look up from where he sat on the bed, staring blankly at the TV. He'd left it on some stupid talk show, finding comfort in the background noise, and figuring the fluff might be mind numbing enough to ease Dean, too.

"Hey," he said, making a point of locking the door behind him. "Anything good on?"

He tried not to sigh when Dean didn't answer. The silence was getting harder to deal with. Or maybe trying to break through it was what really got to him. He wanted to treat Dean as normally as possible, even if it took a great effort.

"You hungry?" Sam asked, sitting on his own bed. He couldn't help notice the subtle tensing of Dean's shoulders. "There's pizza, or we could grab something from the lobby or wherever."

The talk show went on, but the volume wasn't loud enough for Dean not to have heard him. He had a suspicion he wasn't really watching the screen anyway. Looking past it was more like it.

"I said you didn't have to talk, and I meant it," he said slowly, trying not to let his frustration show, "but don't shut me out, okay? Please?"

A hint of desperation must have slipped through, because Dean's eyes flickered his way very briefly. A second later he nodded, and looked away.

Sam tried to be grateful for that, he really did. But all he could think about was how, before, they didn't even need to talk to communicate. Dean could smirk at him and he'd practically hear his brother's voice in his head, cracking a joke about the guy at the bar. When you were hunting, silence was often a necessity, the only advantage you might have when you wanted to stay alive long enough to get back in the fight. They'd been scary good, instinctively knowing where the other would be, and needing no instruction.

Now he had no idea what Dean was thinking; he'd always been tough to read, so adept at hiding his emotions, but that was nothing compared to now. It was so different, so _wrong_ it hurt to think about. His own body was sending out waves of emotion the old Dean would never have missed, and his eyes were pleading. But his brother's face was stone, his eyes adapting a thousand yard stare that chilled Sam to the core.

Dean fidgeted, eyes flicking back to Sam, who quickly realized his staring was making him uncomfortable. He averted his gaze, quickly searching for something to say.

"Um, so... I guess we'll head out soon?" He'd actually planned on staying put until they were able to sort some things out, but now the idea of another hourin that suffocating roomwould be unbearable. "We should probably get you some clothes."

He stood up and retrieved the pizza from the fridge, leaving the box open on the top for Dean to help himself. Cold pizza was one of their staples, and he usually didn't mind it. Today it tasted more wooden than the night before, sticking to the roof of his mouth. He knew it was worry edging off his hunger, so he forced himself to keep chewing, motioning Dean to dig in.

His brother only eyed the leftovers and shook his head.

With some effort he swallowed. "Dean, you have to eat. I know it's not the greatest breakfast, but... you have to be hungry."

Another small shake of his head.

He shrugged, not out of apathy, but out of helplessness. He couldn't make Dean eat, just had to hope he'd be hungry enough eventually. He gave him a once-over, deciding that Dean definitely looked thinner than he had before. More of that annoying worry gnawing at his stomach.

He finished his own breakfast, throwing the remains in the trash. He couldn't imagine eating any more of that tasteless garbage.

--

A little over an hour later, and his day was only getting worse. He should have known Dean in public would been a bad idea.

On the one hand, it seemed to make Dean a little more trusting of him. He was pressed in to his brother, walking so close their hips touched. For now, at least, he saw Sam as safety. It sucked that this was what it took, but he couldn't deny he was happy to see it.

On the other hand, the way Dean was reacting to their venture was on the verge of a full blown panic attack. He kept his hands down by his sides, balled into fists, his entire body stiff, but his eyes were shifting frantically, trying to take in everything. Their pace was steady, but slow, and already his breathing was too fast.

He should have known better, but he didn't have much of a choice; he couldn't leave Dean alone in this state, and they'd already run down Sam's wardrobe. The store itself wasn't that large, but there were enough people around to make even Sam nervous. He had no idea what would happen if Dean got spooked here.

"I'm sorry, dude," he whispered softly, glancing over. "We'll make this short, okay?"

Dean nodded, his face pale.

That was a change, too. Again he was sorry for the circumstances, but not the result.

They got some looks as they walked quietly to the back of the store, and with each one Dean grew more agitated. Sam didn't waste any time, grabbing only the necessities, haphazardly piling them in his arms. His elbow bumped against Dean's as he grabbed a pair of jeans off the shelf, and he was pleased to note that he didn't jump away. If anything, he shifted closer.

"Hi!"

The cheerful voice of the woman who had appeared next to them startled him, but Dean shot backward, bumping into a rack of t-shirts. He'd refused to let Dean carry the knife out of the room, but he saw his hands searching for it. Sam cursed, balancing his pile, and reached out to grab his elbow, making sure he didn't run off.

"Um..." the employee looked uncertain now, and her cheerful tone was replaced by confusion. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No," Sam said quickly. "We're fine."

She nodded, but her eyes went to Dean, and he knew she wasn't sure. He looked back, taking in the wide hazel eyes and the wheezing gasps. Coupled with the bruises and scrapes, he looked anything but.

"We're fine," he said again, trying for an earnest smile. "My brother got mugged last night, so he's still kinda shaky."

The woman nodded slowly, but seemed to believe him. "Okay, well... if you need anything, my name's Amy."

He nodded, relieved when she walked off in the direction of a man digging through a pile of t-shirts. She shot a worried glance over her shoulder, and he smiled until she looked away.

"Are you okay?" he asked, turning back to Dean.

He nodded, but his eyes were still wide and Sam almost thought he could hear his heart pounding. It took him a minute to realize it was his own, sending adrenaline coursing through his veins. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down, and focused on Dean.

"It's okay, Dean," he said, softly. "Try to calm down."

But Dean was looking over his shoulder, at the worker who was now assisting the man with a belt. His eyes were glassy, and the sheen of sweat on his face coupled with the purple smudges under his eyes made him look sickly. He quickly tugged on Dean's elbow, grateful the touch was still allowed. "Let's go."

He guided Dean to the front of the store, scanning for a checkout that wasn't crowded. Luckily it was early enough that the store wasn't crowded, and was able to find one easily. The cashier was just a teenager, trying hard to make polite conversation, but Sam just smiled tightly, keeping a watchful eye on his brother.

As soon as he handed over the money, he grabbed the bags - barely enough to call a wardrobe, but better than nothing - and eagerly headed for the exit. He kept apologizing under his breath, but Dean wasn't hearing it.

A voice called out from behind them, "Sir!"

Sam automatically turned around, and saw the cashier waving him down. "Sir, you forgot your change!"

"Keep it," he muttered, but the kid just kept running at him, arm outstretched. Damn, he was fast.

Dean made a soft sound of alarm, and Sam turned back around in time to see him press into the Impala, clearly shocked that his escape route was blocked. He didn't seem to realize that the driver's side door was open barely an inch to his right, just kept his back against the unyielding metal.

The kid stopped a few feet away, a confused look crossing his features.

Sam waved him away impatiently, but the boy insisted, stealing a nervous glance at the front of the store. Grunting angrily, Sam snatched the cash from his hand, barely noticing the coins that went flying onto the pavement.

"What's wrong with him?" the cashier asked, sounding awed at some stranger's reaction to him. "He slow?"

Sam whirled angrily, towering over the teen._ "No."_

He backed up a step, eyes wide, but kept looking at Dean. "Sorry! But he's - "

"He's _fine_," Sam hissed, his voice venomous, quickly adding, "He just got back from Iraq. Ever heard of post traumatic stress?"

He was tired of making up explanations. What did it matter, anyway? What business was it of theirs?

The kid mumbled an apology and headed back to the store, glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he did.

Angrily, Sam spun around, slamming his palm against the Impala. The pain that accompanied the smack of skin on metal was satisfying, but short lived. If he'd seen Sam treat his car like that, Dean would have _killed_ him before. And when his only reaction was to cower, shift further away from Sam, it only served to point out the stark difference _again. _

That was all it took, he realized. All it took for all the progress to shift into a backslide, was one wrong move.

He hit the car again, but softly, pressing his palm against the black paint, feeling the warmth of the sun that lingered. He dropped his head and fought to breathe evenly. His emotions were threatening not only to catch up with him, but to overwhelm him. Right now he couldn't decide whether he felt more like crying, punching that stupid cashier, or just getting in the car and making a run for it.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be...

_God, Dean. I'm so fucking sorry._

He wanted his brother back, the way he had been. He wanted Dean to tell him it was going to be okay, to make some joke and say he was fine. He wanted Dean to swoop in and save the day so he could just curl up in a ball and ignore the fact that his entire world was upside down, FUBAR with no hope of going back the way they were.

He sucked in a deep breath, bowing his head. No, things could never be the same, but there was still a chance he could salvage some of it. The problem was, he didn't know how to start, was questioning if he had the strength to even try.

A tug on his jacket sleeve brought his attention back to Dean. He was looking at Sam with the same fear, but his eyes went back to the front of the store, then back, his expression urgent. His fingers still gripped Sam's sleeve.

Understanding, and with it, a great sense of relief, dawned on him. Dean wanted to leave. With him.

He gave a vague nod, opened the door, and watched Dean scramble across the seat. He still put as much space as possible between them, but something was different. He didn't question it, just started the car, and drove.

--

For the first time, he thought it might be better if he hadn't come back. Twisted, yeah, but knowing what he was in for was easier than this constant fear, paranoia that was far too justified. It crept along his spine, took up shelter in the back of his head, icy fingers that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

This wasn't what he remembered.

Even the air was different, parting around him in a way he didn't quite understand. He felt like he was trying to run through an ocean, legs taking too much effort to move on an uneven ground. His balance was precarious at best and often, he plunged suddenly under the surface, found himself looking up and wondering what happened.

Times like that the disorientation was nauseating, confusing, but bearable. He didn't always know where he was, but it usually came back to him eventually.

But this...

This was worse.

This was realization.

_There would be no escape._

They were out there, and they would know that he was, too. They would be looking. More than that, they would _find_ him. They would drag him, kicking and screaming, back into the pit, and that would be that.

Even if he managed to stay out of their reach, hidden, what did it matter? He sold his soul - his _soul._ Maybe he didn't believe in God, or Heaven, but it wasn't so bad to think you died, and just stopped_ living. _Scary, maybe, to think of such an abrupt ending. But there was peace in non existence. Rest. To know there was no salvation, not even in death...

To know, really _know_ that no matter whether he was dragged away by demons, or died of old age, _he was still going back..._

Hope, relief, any positive emotion he'd found since his return, was ripped out of his chest. The pain he felt at the realization was almost as if his heart had been ripped from his chest - and he knew what that felt like. Knew what it was to have your chest sliced open, have your sternum cracked, heart plucked easily from your chest, and held in the hands of a demon. Watched it beat, felt his body give out, but there was no end, because he wasn't really alive. No matter what they did to him, he would not, could not die.

He was going to be sick.

He pulled the door open, barely noticing the car was still moving. Only felt the slide as Sam stomped on the brakes and he was thrown against the door, toppling out onto the side of the road, the Impala kicking up dust in his face.

He retched, but there was nothing to throw up. Heard Sam behind him, first angry, then concerned.

Then afraid.

Dry heaves continued even as Sam's hands clutched at his back, begging him to answer. He heard tears in his brother's voice, and it was easier to let himself believe again that this wasn't Sam.

He tried, wanted to, but his mind wouldn't listen.

_It's Sam. You're back, and it's Sam, and things just got a whole helluva lot more complicated._

He sobbed, barely able to see through the tears, and retched again, feeling his nails tear as he dug into the asphalt.

Sam's arm was around his shoulder now, talking, always talking. He wanted to believe that Sam was alive, and that was all that mattered. That he could be okay, as long as Sam was safe. He'd always believed that before.

So why not now?

Because this was torture, his mind reasoned.

_But Dad... Dad got out... _

_But, but... _he laughed inwardly._ Dad was different. He made a deal, a trade, but he didn't sell his goddamn soul. He wasn't supposed to end up there. But you. You were supposed to be dead long before, and you belonged..._

His hand went to his chest, pressing hard as his fractured mind at war with itself.

Reason didn't matter.

It would never be over, and he knew that. He _felt_ that.

Because what really happened to a demon when they died? Were they just _gone?_ As in disappeared forever? Or did they go back to hell and bide their time until the next jailbreak? They could wait forever, because they had that much time.

Forever was a long time, till the _end_ of time, but there would never be an end to this. He would live as long as he could, live with the memories, jumping at shadows, always afraid. There would be no peace in death, because death meant forever. Not the way people thought of forever, but in the literal sense of the word.

He wailed, barely aware he was making a sound.

His mind couldn't take that. Had caved in already. And it still wasn't over. It and he felt sick. Sick what they'd done to him, at what _he'd_ done, sick because when he died, or they took him back, he wouldn't fear becoming a demon. He would _embrace _it.

He didn't want to live. He didn't want to die. He just wanted to _stop_.

He begged Sam to make it stop, unable to hear his own voice over the blood pounding in his ears.

He felt Sam's arms encircle him, almost jumped out of his skin, and resisted - it was too much, too close_. _This was the man he'd sold his soul, given up his humanity, endured Hell for. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would do it again.

There, on the side of the road, he felt himself _shatter._


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer : The math in this chapter is a rough (rough) estimate. I did some figuring, but it's not exact. I'm not good with math, but that's another story for another time. So please don't send me messages telling me I've gotten numbers wrong... it's embarrassing. :(

Thanks again for all the amazing reviews... they really keep me going! And you know, I heard somewhere that every time you review, an angel gets their wings! You don't wanna be responsible for denying an angel its wings, do you?

Okay, I'm kidding... but seriously...wings. ;)

--

Sam kept a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, despite the fact that the car was still parked on the side of the road. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and it was hard to breathe.

He'd lost a few years of his life when Dean threw himself from the car like that. His fear hadn't abated when he realized his brother was sick, not suicidal. It was masked partially by concern, but when his retching turned to sobs, and sobs into a breakdown the likes of which he'd never seen, fear returned full force.

Now Dean appeared to have recovered some lucidity, and he was hesitant to speak, sensing the fragility of the situation.

Instead, he pried his fingers from the wheel long enough to reach into the back seat for a warm bottle of water. Wordlessly he passed it to Dean, who had trouble opening the lid with his fingers shaking as badly as they were. He grabbed it, twisted the cap off in one easy motion, and handed it back.

After a tentative sip, he chugged the rest in one long pull. Sam watched carefully, realizing this was the first time he'd even seen Dean _drink_ something in the past three days. It was obvious now as he shook the last few drops onto his tongue, and he wondered how he'd missed it.

Dean looked to Sam eyes questioning.

"Sorry," he said, his voice sounding too loud to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "That's all there was."

Dean just nodded, twisting the plastic bottle in his hands.

Sam twisted the ignition, bringing the Impala to life, but kept it in park. After a moment, he killed the engine and let his hands fall to the wheel again.

He opened his mouth to speak and was caught off guard when the words he heard weren't his own.

"How long?"

It took him a minute to figure out that Dean had actually _spoken._ His knuckles went white again. "What did you say?"

"H-how long was I... gone?" his voice was hoarse and he wrung the plastic in his hands as if even asking was too much.

"Four years, give or take. Or did you want specifics?" Sam replied without thinking. He laughed bitterly. "Two hundred and forty months. One thousand, seven hundred days, give or take."

He waited for the fallout, but to his great surprise it didn't come. Dean took the news quietly, going pale, but nodding once, as if deciding that was that. He didn't say any more, just sat there staring out the windshield.

Finally Sam started the engine. With no idea what else he could do, he pointed the car in the direction of the hotel.

--

Four years.

_Give or take._

He felt oddly numb, knowing he should react to this revelation somehow. Right now it was all he could do to breathe, watching the scenery pass without really seeing it. Should be be relieved? Resentful for the years, given willingly, but stolen anyway?

A dull sensation registered in his mind - surprise, maybe, but mixed with something that reeked of defeat. His ravaged heart skipped a beat, disbelief burning through his veins. He'd been cheated.

Four years in Hell.

To Sam, it was forever, years spent alone with his grief, terrified for the fate of his brother's undying soul. It was learning to live without a person who had been half of him, and with the unending guilt that reminded him he was the reason for Dean's premature death.

But to him it was horrifying for different reasons entirely.

For a year he'd lived with death dogging his heels, creeping up on him while his brother searched for salvation. A year that passed in heartbeats that counted down to his demise.

Four years he'd waited, burned and bled, and now he wanted to scream with the unfairness of it all. How could that be all?

There was no way to know, down there, no way to mark the passage of time. A day could have been a week, or a week a day, and in the end what it boiled down to was an eternity. Four years could pass in the blink of an eye or stretch and drag out into millennia, and it didn't matter. Years told time in human measure, and humanity didn't exist in Hell.

His memory was unreliable now anyway. In disorienting moments he would come to, and wonder again where he was. Sometimes he could feel the breeze, and wonder how it was he still had lungs to breathe. Others he wished he didn't have to, because the smell of your own skin charred was enough to drop even the strongest of men.

After a while, he'd even stopped hoping his brother would find him. That was the way it was, the way it had to be. He could not live in fear forever, anticipating the agony. He could not dream of a better future, of escape. He could only try to survive with his mind intact. To survive _this_ time and then try to forget. Though his mind often looked to the past, tried to dredge up some happy memory from the ones they twisted around him, he rarely thought of the future. When he did, it was only wondering what they would come up with next, or how long he could go without screaming.

He thought maybe now he understood how people became demons.

First they burned the humanity from your bones. Then they rewarded you for the perverse, depraved things they made you to do. And eventually, it became less a matter of survival, and acceptance of the bane of existence. He wouldn't die, and they wouldn't let him go, but if he played nice, if he pleased them, it didn't have to be so hard.

And so, with the same grim compliance, he accepted this.

Four years for Sam, but for him it had been a _lifetime_.

Yet he knew, without question, he would do it again. It was the only thing he was sure of; his job was to protect Sam, at all costs - future or no future, Hell or not. From the time he was a kid to the day he died. And now, it seemed, long after that.

The gentle hum of tires on pavement became a lullaby, and his body's need for sleep made itself known.

Dean closed his eyes and slipped away.

When he opened them again, she smiled.

"It's good to have you back, Dean," she purred.

With the tangle of black hair that cascaded down her back and the pale olive skin, she was an exotic beauty. Fuck-me heels completed an outfit that was scandalous enough to have even a holy man panting at her feet, but she took 'dressed to kill' too literally for his tastes.

"Fuck you," he said, as he looked away.

Her smile lingered as her face turned to stone, twisted into a wry grin. "The words of a fighter, with none of the will."

She knelt down and cupped his chin, forcing his gaze level with her face.

He fought the urge to close his eyes.

"You're wondering aren't you? What this is?" she laughed softly, her liquid velvet voice pouring over him. "A dream... a memory... or maybe you blinked, missed it, and you're back in Hell."

He jerked his head away and stared into the darkness beyond her.

She laughed again, and rose to her feet.

"Four years," she said, pacing. "Barely the blink of an eye. We had such big plans for you, Dean. You were showing such promise."

"Shut up," he whispered.

"Imagine if he knew. The things you did?" she fixed her black eyes on him. "You weren't even possessed."

He hung his head.

"You think if he knew he'd be so ready to save you?"

"You're a dream," he stated, trying desperately to believe it.

She clucked her tongue, and shook her head, "But you don't really believe that. Your memory, your _mind_ is unreliable."

He looked up as she echoed his previous thoughts, cautiously watching her circle the area in front of him.

"And you'll always wonder... you'll never be quite sure if you're really back, or if you're dreaming. If that's really Sam, or we're just toying with you again... you think it would really be so easy to kill me, boy?"

Her voice deepened, no longer velvet, but fire that planted seeds of doubt once more.

"You can't be saved," she hissed. "You're a monster, and sooner or later, he's gonna realize that. He'll come to see he should have followed Bobby's advice and killed you the second he saw you. And make no mistake, Dean, he _will_ kill you. It's just a matter of time."

"No," he protested weakly. "He wouldn't..."

But she could hear in his voice that he didn't know what to believe.

"If wishes were fishes," she said, her voice fluid again. "Poor Dean. Poor, poor Dean."

She giggled, her glossed lips curving into a serene smile. "Remember the family in Boston?"

He closes his eyes and shrinks back -

- and a strong hand on his shoulder shook him awake. The scream caught in his throat, and he could see the look in Sam's eye. Sam thought that meant progress. Dean didn't care, because he was still back in that house in Boston...

The memory hung over him even after the lines of salt are drawn, and the lights blazing. No protective wards, no amount of light could drive it away, so he swallowed it, and ignored the way it gnawed at his stomach.

Sam was speaking again, his voice forcibly cheerful. Something about dinner, he thought, but he was trying too hard to shake the dream. He found himself pressing his feet against the floor. Unyielding, it met his feet, offering not resistance but reassurance.

He was aware of Sam's eyes on his back as he rose, almost unwilling, and pressed a hand against the wall.

Solid.

It was all real, he told himself, but suddenly the walls were pressing in, too real, too close. All the comfort found in tangibility was suddenly oppressive. He stepped back, head spinning. Any of it could be easily faked, a product of imagination or warped reality, and he would never know. Not until they decided.

He wanted proof.

He spun, watching Sam's brown eyes follow his movements, worried but not wary. His eyes sought the amulet, finding comfort there even as he knew it could easily be the product of hallucinations as much as anything else.

"Dean, what is it?"

He wanted to have faith. He knew faith was stupid, unreliable. Faith was a polite word for wishful thinking.

The world disappeared from beneath his feet, and for a moment he was floating. Then he came crashing back, his body crumpling as he tried unsuccessfully to regain control of his legs.

He realized he'd passed out as Sam's fingers lightly touched his throat, checking his pulse.

His hand shot out, gripping Sam's wrist tightly, ragged nails digging into his skin.

"It's okay, Dean." Sam flinched, but didn't move away. "I've got you."

Touch. He'd craved it as a child, even as he grew to be a man, but lived so long without it that it was foreign to him. And it was more than that. He was afraid to touch, to be touched, but he couldn't let go.

Anchored, if only for a moment, Dean held on.

--

Sam had watched his brother disappear into the bathroom a few minutes ago, armed with fresh clothes. He'd ordered dinner a while ago, and thought it was better for everyone if Dean was otherwise occupied when the delivery came.

He sighed softly.

Dean was stubbornly refusing to part with Sam's sweatshirt, pulling the sleeves over his hands and clutching the material in his fist. That wasn't really a problem; he didn't mind handing the sweatshirt over to Dean. The only other jacket he had was laying on the bottom of his duffle with a gaping hole in the back that he'd been meaning to stitch up for months. With the trip to the store going south so quickly, he hadn't had time to pick up anything more substantial.

But right now, both the hoodie and Dean were filthy. He didn't know if Dean was cold, or thought wearing the thing in the shower equated as "washing" it, but he'd refused to take it off. After only a minute, Sam had relented. They were both too tired to fight, so he'd just told Dean as long as he put something clean on under it, he could keep the damn thing as long as he wanted.

That seemed to be a bargain he could live with, because the water was still running when the delivery man dropped off the food he'd ordered almost half an hour ago.

He knocked lightly on the door, calling Dean's name and hoping he wouldn't have to go in and retrieve him again. The water shut off in reply, and he sighed in relief, setting the bag of food on the tiny table the room provided.

The door opened just as he finished setting out the cartons of food, and he turned to greet his brother.

"Hey," he said softly.

Dean half nodded his still damp hair falling across his forehead in a way that made him look young and vulnerable. Sam shook it off, pleased to note that his jeans were clean, though he'd ignored the socks, and still wore the dirty sweatshirt.

He sat in one of the two chairs, and motioned for Dean to do the same. After a brief hesitation, he did so, resting his hands awkwardly in his lap.

"I got you a burger," Sam said, nudging the Styrofoam container across the table. "It's plain, sorry."

Dean swallowed hard.

Sam dug into his own meal; he hadn't realized until he'd smelled the food, but he was _starving_. Halfway into his burger, he noticed that Dean wasn't eating. In fact, he seemed to be looking anywhere but the table.

"What's wrong?" he asked, setting his burger down on the foil it had been wrapped in.

Dean didn't answer, but moved the container of food away with one finger, as if afraid to touch it.

So they were back to that.

"Dean, you have to eat," he said, softly but sternly. "You haven't eaten for days, you need food."

Dean shook his head miserably.

"Dude, you passed out!" Sam said. "You're a freaking zombie."

Dean flinched at the raised tone, but shook his head again.

"Please?" he tried, holding out his fries.

Begrudgingly his brother accepted to proffered carton, wrinkling his nose.

"You used to love them," he said glumly. He immediately felt silly for being so sad at such a minor thing, but the difference was glaring. It only further cemented the fact that this was a Dean he didn't really know_._

With a scowl Dean took a single fry and put it in his mouth, grimacing distastefully. He chewed it like he was being forced to eat chalk, but continued, looking like he was literally choking down every bite.

"Thanks," Sam said softly.

He picked up his food, unable to eat with the same enthusiasm he had before. He diligently finished the meal, setting an example for his brother. As soon as he finished, Dean shoved the carton of half-eaten fries back at him.

"Uh-uh," he said as he balled up the foil and threw it in the grease stained bag the food was delivered in. "Finish 'em."

Dean tried again to hand them back, but Sam gave him a stern look and repeated himself.

His shoulder's slumped and he reluctantly dropped the carton in front of him again, picking at the soggy fries.

"I know it's not the best for your stomach," Sam apologized, "but you need to eat, and there's not too much I can get ordered in."

Dean pushed a fry around the table with one finger, focusing intently on the trail it left.

Sam sat back and turned his attention to the generic watercolors framed on the walls. Maybe if he didn't make such a big deal out of it Dean would eat. So he stared first at the sailboat, then the mountain sunset, and the forest cottage, wondering who thought that was a good combination. Three different scenes that had nothing to do with each other, or the area the hotel was situated in.

He laughed to himself and focused on the mountain landscape. It reminded him of a view he'd seen once when hunting a creature with his dad and Dean. It was an easy kill, but by the time they'd salted and burned the bones, it was dark. They'd ended up camping out overnight, and he was surprised to find it enjoyable.

A smile crossed his face as he reminisced, aware that it was the first time he'd done so in far too long. That thought only made him frown as he wondered how long before he would see Dean's familiar smile, reassuring him, joking with him.

He turned his attention back to his brother, who was still pushing the same fry around the table, creating a little oil slick. He sighed, and reached out to take the carton, trying to ignore the relief and anxiety on his brother's face as he downed the rest of them.

"Don't worry about it, " was all he said, but the look on Dean's face was still anxious.

Or maybe it was another reason entirely, he decided, when his brother darted to the bathroom. He jumped to his feet to follow just as the sounds of retching met his ears, and was greeted by the sight of Dean bent over the toilet, emptying his stomach of the only thing he'd eaten.

He quickly ran a washcloth under the tap, then knelt by Dean. He was careful to keep his distance while trying to offer comfort, offering the cool cloth when the dry heaves ended.

Dean accepted it silently and scrubbed his mouth with it, scooting away from the toilet to rest against the wall.

Sam sighed and flushed the toilet with the toe of his boot, leaving the room long enough to grab the extra toothbrush from his duffle. He handed it over, along with the toothpaste.

Dean looked at both in confusion for a moment before it registered and he stood shakily. He stood blankly in front of the sink, holding the toothbrush in front of him, the tube of Crest at his side. Uneasy at the helpless way Dean stood there, Sam leaned over and took the toothpaste, squeezing some out onto the bristles for his brother.

As he watched Dean mechanically brush his teeth, Sam noted the sheen of sweat that covered his pale face.

Sam sighed again, then tentatively said, "Dean?"

He got no sign that Dean had heard besides a blink of his eyes as he spat into the sink.

Sam caught himself about to sigh _again_ and stopped himself. He didn't want Dean thinking he was upset with him. He forced himself to breathe before speaking. "I think we need to go shopping."

Dean froze for a second, then went back to brushing, applying more force than necessary.

"I know," Sam apologized. "But you need decent food, and I can't... I don't want to leave you here. Okay?"

Dean spat again, lowered his toothbrush, and nodded gravely.

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay."

--

Sam kept a white-knuckled grip on the basket, his heart pounding as if he was facing down a Wendigo. It seemed almost comical that this rundown 24 hour grocery could provoke the same fight or flight response as a hunt, but in reality, he'd take the Wendigo over this.

_Any _day.

Beside him, Dean moved stiffly, looking straight ahead with his wary eyes. He kept close to Sam again, and the fact that the aisles were mostly empty didn't seem of any consolation.

They'd waited until it was too late for normal people to be doing any grocery shopping, then driven around until they'd found a deserted parking lot. Sam was determined to make this trip easier on his brother, even if it meant shopping at two o'clock in the morning.

He made it quick, scooping items into the basket and keeping his pace brisk as they navigated the aisles. This time around he'd let Dean hang on to Ruby's knife, and he was eager to get out without said knife making an appearance. Too bad giving Dean a little more peace of mind meant giving up his own.

He grabbed a jug of milk without checking the expiration date, figuring orange juice would be too acidic, and moved on quickly. He was halfway done when he realized they had nothing to eat with, and had to make a detour to pick up some paper plates and plastic silverware. Then, as an afterthought, he ran through the health and beauty aisle, picking up a few supplies to replenish the dwindling first aid kit.

By the time he was finished the basket was overflowing, and Dean's face was drawn as tight as his nerves were stretched.

The downside of a crappy store was the lack of self checkout, which meant an agonizing ten minute wait while the bored clerk checked them out. Sam swore, telling himself the use of violence would only make things worse, and tried not to grab the bags and run when the man _finally_ handed him his receipt and mumbled something that might have been "have a nice night".

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding when they finally reached the Impala.

He gathered the bags in one hand and dug for his keys with the other, squinting to locate the lock in the darkness of the parking lot. They'd parked around the side of the building, and it was too dark to see. He didn't want to scratch the paint jamming the key randomly in the direction of the lock.

"Dean, can you give me a hand?" he asked.

His answer was a sharp intake of breath that brought him to full alert, his head snapping up and the keys dropping with a metallic clink. He almost felt silly when he saw the security guard walking their way.

"Easy," he whispered without moving his lips. Clearly this had been a bad idea.

Dean shrank back, pressing against the car in a mirror image of the events at the department store what seemed like ages ago. The look on his face was much different this time, that full blown panic and trapped look coupled with something Sam couldn't explain. If he thought Dean was scared before, it was nothing compared to the terror in his eyes now.

"Hey, boys," the guard said, voice low and unconcerned. "You look like you could use a hand there."

Sam forced a smile, but shook his head, unable to bring himself to stoop down to get the keys. Dean was trembling so hard behind him he swore the ground must be shaking.

"Everything okay?" the man said, hand resting easily on his belt.

Sam's eyes instinctively searched for a gun, but all he carried was a flashlight, and what might have been a taser, or mace; it was too dark to tell.

"Nope," he said, trying to match the man's drawl. "Just doing some shopping."

"Late night, eh?" the guard asked, eyeing the bags. "You guys been drinking?"

Sam frowned. _Since when does shopping equate a beer run? And since when is that any business of a night watchman?_

"Nah, just picking up some food," he said evenly, checking the uniform and looking for a badge. But his eyes hadn't betrayed him, the man was definitely _not_ a cop.

"Mind if I take a look?" he asked, pulling his flashlight from his belt in one swift movement.

He felt a rush of air as Dean pushed off the car, his soft sound of protest telling everyone he didn't approve.

The man narrowed his eyes, but didn't step back as Dean positioned himself in front of Sam.

The bags were digging into his fingers, and Sam struggled to untangle them, not at all liking where this situation was going.

"Easy, Dean," he said, dropping the bags unceremoniously. There was nothing vital in there. The only vital thing in his life was currently pushing him backward, one arm thrown out protectively over his chest.

"Take it easy," the guard echoed, eyeing Dean suspiciously.

In response, Dean grunted, the noise somehow expressing both warning and distress. Sam raised a hand to push Dean's arm down and alternately ease his brother's alarm. He positioned himself in front of Dean, and watching his hands carefully. The last thing he needed was for Dean to pull a knife. The hair on the back of his neck rose - no, he didn't like this. The best thing was just to end it fast, and get the hell out of there before someone got hurt.

"It's okay, dude," he said softly. "We're just gonna get in the car and go."

"Sorry, he's - " Sam started apologetically, turning to face the guard.

The lie died on his tongue as the guard moved forward with alarming speed, his fist landing a solid hit to his temple. Sam saw stars as pain exploded through his head, spinning him back into Dean.

His brother caught him, making distressed sounds in the back of his throat as Sam went to his knees.

He shook his head to clear his vision, Dean's grip on his shoulders too tight as he tried to pull him to his feet.

He looked up, dazed, and saw the grin that spread across the security guard's face. Everything in him screamed at him to get to his feet, but he couldn't make himself move.

_Oh, shit._

"Don't worry," the guard was saying, sounding amused. "I'm not going to kill you - _yet._ Gotta take care of him first."

He laughed, taking a step forward, and Sam cursed himself for not carrying a weapon. Just to put Dean at ease he'd put them both at risk, and now they were going to pay for it.

He spared a glance at his brother, and as his mind voiced an apology, he steadfastly refused to let this happen. At once a mix of voices descended, a mix of his father, his brother, and his own desperation.

_Move. MOVE!_

Before he could, something in his brother changed. In the absence of panic, his face turned to stone. Still, there was no warning.

The attack was sudden, charged, but somehow beautiful in it's violence. With one smooth motion Dean was moving, flying forward in a vicious lunge, the knife appearing out of nowhere. The guard flew backward, stumbling.

He never stopped moving, his next attack merely an extension of the first. In a graceful motion that reminded Sam of a dance on ice, Dean whirled, backhanding the man with one hand, sending him back another few feet. He spun again, the blade of the knife digging in deep, tearing across the man's neck.

He ended in a crouch, and Sam saw a feral look on his face, eyes dark, lip curled back. The moon hit him, illuminating the flecks of blood darkening his pale face. The man - the demon, he realized a little too late - died with little more than a brief flash of light and a hint of sulfuric smoke.

Dean's chest heaved, and his eyes were fixed on the body before him. The fingers of his left hand touched the ground lightly, and his right was still extended behind him, the knife clutched tightly in his fist.

Sam groaned, and Dean's head snapped up. For a second his heart stopped, and he was afraid his brother would turn that fury on him. Then he rose slowly and he made his way over to Sam. Every few steps he would hesitate, look back at the body as if it might rise back to its feet and launch another attack.

Dean dropped to his knees beside him, and Sam just blinked as he tugged urgently on his sleeve.

"Just...gimme a minute," he muttered, toughing his temple gingerly. "Shit!"

Dean jumped a little at his exclamation and threw a glance over his shoulder.

"Right, right," he said, blindly searching the ground for the keys.

He hummed approval as he found them, and let Dean pull him urgently to his feet. He almost forgot about the groceries, but managed to remember them at the last minute, stuffing them into the back seat.

"Should... hide the body," he mumbled, pressing his hand to his forehead.

Too much effort, he realized, knowing it would take everything he had to even stay on the road. Damned if that wasn't the worst sucker punch he could remember.

He started the car, and eyed his brother.

Where the hell had that come from?


	11. Chapter 11

Author's Note : Season Four is near... I guess that means that this is technically AU.

It also means the pressure is on! I really don't want it to be influenced by the new season's storyline so I've been pushing myself the past week or so. I haven't been updating, but I've been writing, and I have up to chapter 16 written out, with a general plan for the rest.

I hope you're all still interested, because being ahead in chapters and having new Supernatural will no doubt mean faster updates. So thank you for all the wonderful reviews, and as always, enjoy!

--

The fear that gripped him was overwhelming; he had no other word for it. It seeped out from underneath his skin, invisible, but very much real. The air was heavy with the stink of it, and he almost gagged as he breathed in, tasting it in the back of his throat.

He'd had the brief, almost comforting thought that things might be easier now.

The true face of a demon was enough to stop a human heart. Didn't happen often, because demons needed a host, and even when it did they usually weren't alive long enough to even contemplate what they'd seen. Some people got away, but you couldn't really call them lucky to have survived. Some of them went insane. Those who didn't would spend the rest of their lives labeled crazy and trying to convince the world they weren't.

He'd spent the past four years - _forever - _with the gloves off, so to speak, and he still might never be able to look upon it without his heart skipping a beat. But wasn't that something, at least? To be able to see?

It should mean less uncertainty. It would be even, now. Boom, instant demon detection. _No more hiding, assholes, I can _see_ you. _

Instead, he found himself wondering why. _Why_ could he still see them?

_"We can see you, too..."_

The voice whispered to him from the darkness as he sat there on the floor, too afraid to turn on the lights.

Spiders crawled the length of his spine, and he shuddered, swiping with too-short fingers, unable to get the sensation to stop. With a whimper he backed into the cool tile behind him, pressing hard enough that every bone felt the spark of pain.

He hadn't thought there was any fight left in him; that had been beaten out of him years ago. Fear paralyzed him at first, and he'd known that was _it_, but when Sam hit the ground, it all came rushing back. The only thing he'd ever really known was to keep Sam safe.

It was a knee-jerk reaction, an instinct driven attack that he could barely remember now. He drew his knees to his chest and whimpered, shoving his fist into his mouth and biting down as he tried to muffle the cries. He was curled up in the dark bathroom, not wanting to wake Sammy up, wanting him to wake up more than anything.

Sam had eyed him oddly the whole way home, barely able to drive, but somehow having the presence of mind to put away the milk before he collapsed on the bed.

The last thing he'd said before passing out was, "What did they to you, Dean? What the hell did they _do?"_

He chewed on his knuckle, trying to stop the strangled sounds he was making and thought maybe he should have let the demon kill him. He'd gotten the jump on Sam because Sam hadn't _seen_, and he'd had no choice, it was hard wired in his brain to protect his brother no matter what.

He knew he wouldn't have fought if it hadn't been for Sam.

He pulled his fist from his mouth and chewed on his lip.

If it weren't for Sam, he wouldn't be in this situation in the first place but didn't have it in him to resent his brother. He couldn't regret his decision.

It was easy to reason why Sam should live on and he should not. No matter the plans someone might have and the moments he slid too close to the darkness, his brother was good, his brother was kind, his brother deserved to live. Sam's life had been stolen, ripped away before his time. Dean? He should have been dead three times over. It was like restoring a balance.

But as he huddled in the bathroom, he couldn't think about Sam anymore, or the need to protect him. He hadn't checked for signs of a concussion, hadn't woken him up every few hours and bugged him with questions about the date and origin of his injury. He'd checked the salt lines and hidden, was still hiding, wanting only to wake his brother up so Sam could tell _him_ it was all right.

The phantom pain in his chest was sharp and sudden, almost enough to convince him it was real. He gasped, a sharp inhalation that echoed off the tile, and dug the heel of his hand into his chest.

_Breathe... _

He shivered and wondered if he'd ever be warm again.

--

Sam awoke with a pounding headache, and a taste in his mouth that make him think he'd swallowed a sock. He cracked his eyes open and immediately closed them again when the sunlight proved to be too bright. With a groan, he turned over in bed, regretting it when the movement made the pounding in his head intensify. He tried opened his eyes to slits this time, and tested his reaction. At least the sunlight wasn't so bad anymore, now that it was warming his back and not his retinas.

With another groan he stretched experimentally, finding the rest of his body in much better condition. He ran a hand through his hair to work away at the tangles and thought back.

The moment it hit him he shot up in bed. "Dean?"

He was up and out of bed in seconds, fighting the sway of the room, and heading for the bathroom before he even knew he was doing it. Relief washed over him when he saw Dean looking up from the spot he'd taken up on the floor.

"Man, you gotta start sleeping on the bed," he muttered, despite his doubts that Dean had actually slept.

He yawned again and wondered what to deal with first - Dean's sleeping habits, or the events of the previous night? He stared down at the salt line and decided his bladder and desire for a hot showed won out over either.

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the room. Dean took his signal willingly, climbing to his feet and padding softly from the bathroom.

Sam joined him long enough to grab a change of clothes and his toiletries from his duffle.

"I'm gonna get a shower, okay?" he asked, pausing to grab a bottle of aspirin.

Dean nodded, looking to the side and chewing on his lip.

Still too sleepy and his head too fuzzed to read into the look on his brother's face, Sam headed to the bathroom.

This time around he was pretty confident Dean wasn't going to run off, so he took his time, letting the shower beat down on his back. It did little to alleviate the kinks stress had formed in his muscles, but it felt good, so he stayed there after the cheap soap had swirled down the drain.

Wrapped in a towel, he found he was too much of a worrier not to crack the door while he shaved and brushed his teeth. Dean might not be up for conversation, but that didn't stop him from making small talk in between mouthfuls of toothpaste.

When he rubbed steam from the mirror and found the dull bruising at his temple, he shrugged it off. It wasn't so bad, he decided. And he'd definitely had worse. It was amazing what a shower, shave, and some crappy painkillers could do for your mood.

He dressed and hung the towel to dry before leaving the quiet bathroom, squaring his shoulders in preparation.

Time to face the day.

Dean was sitting on his bed, picking a hole in the knee of his new jeans. Sam furrowed his brow. Unbidden, his father's voice came to mind, and he remembered Dean's penchant for ruining new jeans within the first week of wear. He smiled fondly at the memory and crossed the distance to his own bed, dumping his toiletry bag on the floor by his duffle as he went.

"So," he said, sitting lightly on the disheveled sheets, "I know you're not crazy about it, but how about we get you some breakfast?"

Despite his purposefully easy tone, Dean tensed up and gave Sam a pleading look.

Sam forced himself to stay stern, "And after that, I think you need to try to sleep."

The pleading face flashed something that might have been incredulity. Sam wasn't surprised - he might as well have told his grown brother he was spoon feeding him and sending him off to nap-time whether he liked it or not.

He half wanted Dean to snap at him and say he was _not_ a two year old, he could make his own breakfast, and he did not need a_ nap_. To complete it perfectly, Dean could huff and hold his arms, looking every bit like a petulant child.

But Dean's sigh was only resigned as he slumped forward, still worrying the frayed edge of the hole he was working on.

Sam felt bad, and had to fight not to wrinkle his nose as he made his brother a peanut butter sandwich. It would be easy on Dean's stomach, but Sam could barely stomach the thought. Peanut butter didn't need refrigerated, and bread didn't have a chance to mold with three people eating it at every meal, so they'd relied on generic Jif a lot as kids. Just the sight of one of those industrial sized jars was enough to make his stomach turn even now.

He debated something else to go along with the sandwich, remembering his brother's voracious appetite, but he knew he was pressing his luck as it was. In the end he handed it to Dean on a napkin.

Dean immediately set to picking at the crust and steadfastly ignoring it otherwise.

"Could you just...try?" Sam asked hopefully. "Or do you want something else?"

He frowned, thinking he should have picked up some Ensure or something. Even those Jenny Craig things had nutrition in them, and if Dean's stomach was bothering him this much, he probably didn't need anything solid.

In reply Dean gingerly raised the sandwich to his mouth and took a small bite, chewing slowly.

He'd remembered to pick up Gatorade, so he grabbed a cheap plastic cup from the sink and ripped the cellophane off. He didn't remember which was Dean's favorite flavor, but he knew what to avoid - another throwback to the past. A bad stomach flu had laid Dean up for days, unable to shake it. He'd guzzled Gatorade by the gallon in Dad's desperate attempt to ward off dehydration and as a result he refused to touch anything grape flavored ever again.

He handed the cup of blue liquid over, and Dean abandoned the sandwich to greedily slurp the contents down, wincing as he swallowed but looking to Sam for more.

"Finish the sandwich and you can have more," Sam said, feeling guilty as soon as Dean's face fell. "Okay... half."

Dean must have found the compromise acceptable, because he went back to the sandwich, eating at the slowest pace Sam had ever seen.

He fought back as sigh and went to pour another glass, watching from the corner of his eye as Dean took another bite. He took his time pouring the drink, and two more bites were swallowed by the time he finished.

Half the sandwich was gone, but Dean's eyes were pleading. The tight clench of his jaw and frequent swallowing were all he needed to know that even now it was barely staying down.

"Small sips," he instructed, handing over the plastic cup. "Slowly."

Dean complied miserably, and Sam had heart enough to pluck the half-eaten remains from his knee and toss it in the trash. A waste of food, maybe, but he hoped 'out of sight and out of mind' would equal 'still in stomach'.

It wasn't as if he was really hurting for cash anyway. He was finally to the point that he didn't have to rely on the false credit cards as much. Not that he really cared about that anymore. His priorities had changed when his brother sold his soul. What was a little fraud with that on your conscience, after all? Getting odd jobs here and there was tough, and never paid much, but it still felt good to earn money the right way when he could. And while he was never as good at hustling as Dean had been, but he could get by when he needed to.

He wondered what Dean would think if he knew his goody goody little brother had voluntarily resorted to less than honorable means to get money. Cash advances on credit cards, some gambling if he could risk it. It wasn't like he was asking for donations for a little blind boy and then spending the money on booze. Someone had to do the job, and it meant he couldn't always earn an honest living.

He couldn't very well hold a steady job with all the moving around he did. Inevitably he'd end up coming to work looking like a zombie with blood on his shirt and a pistol still tucked in his jeans. Something told him that wouldn't go over well.

He'd just have to stick to what he'd been doing - what he could when he could and biting the bullet when he couldn't.

Sam shook the momentary guilt and took the now empty cup from Dean's shaking hand. "Stomach okay?"

Dean gave a noncommittal shrug, but wrapped one arm protectively around his middle.

"Why don't you lie down?" he suggested. At Dean's narrowed eyes, he added, "You don't have to sleep. Just rest, see if your stomach doesn't settle."

Dean clearly didn't buy into that, but the glare he gave only made Sam smile. That was more like the old Dean, less like the broken creature who'd taken his place.

In the back of his head, a voice wondered how long that would last.

And, as always, asked : _Now what?_

--

The sandwich stayed down.

He supposed that was a good thing, even if the meager amount of food in his stomach was making him queasy. No matter how repugnant the idea of food was, he would have to eat. It was nutrition, which meant strength. Strength meant a chance to fight, and fighting meant he might make it out alive.

When had he decided that - to fight? To live?

Maybe he hadn't. It was the instinct they'd driven out of him. It was the hope he lost, learned to stifle. It crept in quietly, and for the briefest moment, it dared to flicker.

--

And so the days went.

Dean ate little, slept less. When he talked, it wasn't much. With every small victory came more setbacks. Guilt ate away at Sam every night Dean woke up screaming, and every day Sam tried to come up with answers. And every day he found only more questions.

Until, finally, came the call.

When Sam answered, there was no preamble, just a rush of air as Bobby said, _"Sam, got a job for ya."_

He cast a glance at Dean, who was watching him with interest, and hedged what hadn't been a request. "Bobby, I'm kinda... tied up right now."

"_Tied up?" _Bobby asked, clearly wanting details. _"I ain't heard from you in going on three weeks now, boy." _His voice was tinny and static with poor reception, but Sam didn't miss the tension.

"Yeah, uh..." he trailed off. Maybe now wasn't the time to mention his brother was back from the dead. And maybe it was. "Listen, Bobby..."

The hunter cut him off, _"Sam, you've been hunting non stop for four years. One hunt right after another? Hell, it's enough to wear anyone down. I know you're tired. But Sam... it's just a simple hunt. I'm stuck in Denver, and you're right next door. I just need you to check it out."_

Sam closed his eyes and sighed.

"Bobby," he said softly. "I _can't_..."

When he spoke again, it was with confusion, concern, maybe even a little anger. _"You all right?"_

He could have lied. Said he was laid up with some injuries from a hunt gone bad, and that'd be that. Bobby wouldn't question him if he thought Sam wasn't fit for the job.

Watching his brother from the corner of his eye, he thought about it. He didn't have the heart to lie anymore. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, he saw Dean stand and motion to him. He covered the mouthpiece of the phone.

"I want to go."

He blinked and stared at his brother. "Dean, I don't think - "

Dean's eyes were intense, burning into his own.

"I _want_ to go."

_"Sam?"_ Sam kept the speaker covered, ignoring Bobby.

Dean was in no shape to hunt, still too thin, too weak. But standing there, a shadow of his former self with a baggy t-shirt hanging loose on his shoulders, Sam saw something in his brother's eyes. He didn't know what it was, only that it hadn't been there before.

He sighed again, knew he might come to regret it, but spoke anyway :

"What do you need me to do?"


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer : Um, for the record, I still don't own any of this...

Author's Note : Was everyone as impressed with the season premier as I was? I know, I know, I didn't except them to go that route either, but... let's just say I'm not gonna turn down the eye candy.

I also want to send a special thanks to hitchcock-starlet who found this story a couple of days ago and took the time to write out a review for every single chapter. How awesome is that? (Hint : really freakin' awesome!) So thank you, hitchcock-starlet, and thanks to everyone else who has read and reviewed. By now I think you all know I'm a bit of a review whore... please don't judge. ;)

I'm not really happy with this chapter, but I don't have it in me to rewrite that much of the story, so it's staying. Any mistakes are sorry for being there, and thoroughly blame me for their existence.

--

Halfway to their destination, Dean was trying very hard not to regret his decision. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to jump right back into things, but taking it slow wasn't an option anymore. He wouldn't be a liability, refused to be the reason Sam was turning down Bobby's plea for help. He'd done nothing for long enough, and if he'd be damned if he was the reason people were dying.

But as he sat in the diner, under the eyes of a dozen patrons, he couldn't get his skin to stop crawling. He was anxious and barely able to control the urge to run when anyone came anywhere near the table. The smell of cooking food combined with the stench of too many truckers without access to a shower was making his stomach churn. He fidgeted, and forced himself not to reach for his knife by sitting on his hands.

Across the booth, he was aware of Sam's eyes on him, too. He was nervous, worried, and it showed.

The waitress came to take their order, and it was all he could do to remain in his seat. He looked down at his lap, trying hard to focus on anything but the fact that this person was too damn close.

He heard Sam rattling off an order, heard the waitress say something in return, and wondered if it would be too much to ask to maybe hide out in the Impala until Sam finished eating.

Then the waitress reached for him.

His heart stopped as the hand came closer, his entire body going still as fight or flight kicked in and his brain tried to figure out which one would get him out of this alive. His fingernails dug into the vinyl beneath him, a scream caught in his throat -

- and she whisked the menu out from in front of him, offering an uneasy smile before heading back to the kitchen.

Okay... taking it slow was good. They definitely should have kept taking it slow. He wasn't ready for this.

He drew in a ragged breath and tried to nod when Sam asked if he was okay.

_No, I'm not okay. I'm an idiot._

He forced his breathing to even out, and tried to relax his grip on the seat, folding his hands in his lap. What kind of man couldn't even face a pretty little truck stop waitress without pissing himself? What kind of man wanted to hide in the car forever? He'd faced demons, vampires, he'd been to_ hell_ and he couldn't take half an hour in some tiny diner?

_If Dad could see you now..._

Dean squared his shoulders and told himself to stop being such a wimp about this. He was fine. He could do this.

But when the waitress brought their food, not only could he not bring himself to dazzle her with the ol' Winchester charm, he still couldn't so much as look at her. And if that wasn't bad enough, when he saw Sam's steak sitting on his plate, rare and swimming in blood-tinged juice, he lost it.

He vaulted from his seat, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran to the bathroom, pushing through the swinging door and into the first stall he saw. He barely made it, hitting his knees hard just as the contents of his stomach made a reappearance.

It wasn't much, but it left him shaking, _shaking, _clinging to the toilet seat, too preoccupied to care that it was probably filthy. All that mattered was trying to convince himself it was steak, not a chunk of flesh he'd seen on that plate. It was _food_, nothing more.

But he still smelled the sickening stench of charred flesh, tasted it at the back of his throat. His stomach refused to settle and he gagged again.

When he finished, it was only because his stomach realized there was nothing more to throw up. By that time Sam was standing at the door, looking concerned when it swung open.

"Are you all right?" he asked as Dean crossed to the sink to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth.

Dean didn't answer, scrubbing his face clean with the same rough paper towels that graced bathrooms everywhere as if it would actually remove the layers of filth he felt clinging to his skin. What was he supposed to say that anyway? They both knew that nothing was ever going to be right again.

He crumpled the paper towels in his hands, throwing them in the trash without a second glance. No, he wasn't all right. He was wondering if he was going to have to worry about facing a plate of steak more than a diner full of people from now on.

Since he'd been back, nothing held the same appeal, but food had been the worst of it. It was all he could do to choke down enough to keep kicking. Nothing tasted right, and he wondered if the ash coating his tongue would ever go away. Looked like that wasn't his only problem. Maybe he'd been looking at steak back there, but what he'd been seeing was a chunk of human flesh, singed and served up like Christmas ham.

Now, staring at his reflection in the grimy mirror, he saw a stranger. A thin, weak stranger with shadows in his eyes. His hair was too long and dark circles under his eyes spoke of the sleepless nights. He turned away, unable to face himself. He felt betrayed by both body and mind, and he was utterly disgusted with it.

Looking at Sam was worse, seeing those doe eyes pointed his way, concern practically radiating from him.

_I'm fine_.

It was the response he would have given before. He wanted to say it now, to lie and reassure. To say _anything_. He didn't even need to speak; he could shake his head, or nod. He could shrug, a noncommittal gesture that was, at the very least, a response. Instead, he stared at the floor.

"Maybe this was too much, too soon," Sam said on a sigh. "I'm sorry, Dean."

_No,_ he wanted to say. _Don't be sorry. It's not your fault, it's mine._

His eyes burned holes through the tile.

"You wanna head to the car?" Sam asked, and he hated how his brother's voice was soft, the placating tone you used on a child. "I'll get them to wrap the food up and we can just eat on the go?"

He could still smell the faint metallic odor of blood, and for a minute he didn't know if it was a memory. A quick check told him it wasn't his blood, but surely he wasn't still smelling the still-kicking cow on Sam's plate? God, what he wouldn't give for some smelling salts - something potent enough to overpower the blood.

Sam was frowning at him. Waiting for a response, he realized. And since staying in the bathroom for the rest of the night probably wasn't an option, he nodded.

Sam's hand on his back, a simple gesture that still made him cringe, offered support as he left the relative safety of the bathroom. He felt the eyes on him as he did his walk of shame, felt the glaring absence as Sam's hand retracted, and forced himself not to bolt to the car. He kept his pace steady, all too aware of every footstep, and watched from the corner of his eye as Sam headed back to the table.

One foot after another led him into the night.

--

As they drove, Sam recounted the information Bobby gave him. He'd gotten wind of the trouble from another hunter, who'd been passing through on his way to take care of a spirit in New York. Passing himself off as a reporter, he landed a phone interview with the mayor, who was eager to put rumors to rest.

The facts spoke for themselves : Four people were dead in Eastern Ohio.

Three men and one woman, members of three separate companies working together on a rundown Victorian called Manor House. The house had been beautiful once, but after decades of neglect, it was in danger of being condemned. Instead of demolishing the place, the city officials decided to save the structure, an unofficial historical landmark, and put money into what would become the town's community center.

The first death happened four weeks ago. An experienced roofer somehow missed a rotted section of the roof he was replacing and plunged into the basement, breaking his neck. Work went on without interruption.

Then, while reinforcing supports in the basement in preparation to repair the floor, a beam collapsed, trapping two workers beneath it. While it took only minutes to free them, both workers were pronounced dead on arrival, a result of massive brain hemorrhage brought on by the crushing blow of the heavy beam.

Construction was brought to a halt, and did not start up until a second survey of the house proved safe enough to bring worker's back in.

The final death came only days later; while working on the wiring, an electrician had been electrocuted.

After that last incident, police couldn't ignore the public's demand that they explore the possibility of foul play. It was no surprise that they deemed the deaths accidental - there was nothing suspicious in the deaths besides the time in which they happened. It was a unfortunate series of events that happened, they said. Tragic, and shocking, but completely coincidental.

Coincidence or not, it was hard to stomach, and a dark cloud settled over the town. Rumors of a curse sprang up - half a humored attempt to cope with the tragedies, and half nervous fear - and the allure of the long awaited community center began to fade. Now they were just trying to decide if it was safe enough to continue.

According to the mayor, Manor House had all the signs : flickering lights, cold spots, but it was all stuff you could attribute to an old house undergoing renovations.

He wasn't so sure if it was their kind of problem, or just a really sad series of bad luck for a small town. Sure, it sounded suspicious. And maybe the house was a lawsuit waiting to happen, but what were the chances four people would die there in as many weeks? Even if it was a death trap, they were talking seasoned workers, doing what they knew best, what they did every day.

With any luck, this would be a walk in the park, a good way to ease Dean back into the swing of things without any real trouble. After the diner, Sam wasn't so sure Dean was ready for anything more.

He followed the signs to Pine Falls, ignoring the fact that the area boasted very few pine trees, and, at Bobby's direction, kept driving until the houses became fewer and far between. He knew as soon as he saw the dilapidated roof rise over the crest of a hill that this was Manor House.

Even seeing the monster of a house in the middle of the night it was clear, Manor House was something special. Sure, it was run down now, but it must really have been something in its day... even with the redundant name.

Sam slowed to a stop a safe distance away, pulling far enough off the road that a passing car wouldn't endanger Dean's baby.

They crossed the road, waiting until they reached the porch before Sam flicked on his flashlight. The beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating his path up the stairs. He took them three at a time, his long legs easily carrying him onto the porch.

A sharp crack and a muffled cry from behind him had him spinning on his heel, gun appearing as if out of nowhere to focus on a sheepish Dean. He played the light down and saw Dean's leg disappear into a hole where the fifth step used to be.

"You okay?" he asked, letting out a sigh of relief. His heart was in his throat, and he tried to talk it back down.

Dean nodded, pulling his foot back through the splintered wood.

Before he opened the door he made a mental note to take it easy, and not just on the stairs. This place was in bad shape, and on the off chance the deaths here really had been accidents, they needed to watch their step.

The doorknob was cold beneath his hand.

"Here we go..." he muttered.

And then he twisted.

--

Work had been underway for over a month, yet the inside of Manor House looked as if it had been sitting untouched for years. A noticeable layer of dust coated every surface, including an obviously recent addition - an improvised table made of sawhorses and a sheet of plywood. Even the continued interruptions letting dust settle again couldn't equate to that kind of build up.

The air was stale, and plenty cool, with fat motes of dust drifting easily through the light they provided. As they progressed through the house, getting an idea of the layout and scanning with the EMF, they saw signs more that life had existed inside these walls only recently : an unopened box of nails, a circular saw, a lone can of WD40, even an abandoned over shirt left crumpled in the corner.

One room was no more than a gaping hole that gave an easy view of the basement, and it was there they discovered the site of the first three deaths. Though the first had died on impact, the problem started on the roof, and the electrician had died in the foyer, so he ruled out any connection beginning or ending in the basement.

They skirted that room, and headed for the stairs. When the EMF remained silent the entire time Sam felt his nerves unwind. He'd wanted an easy hunt, but it looked like there might be none at all. Plenty of dust, a whole lot of work that needed done, but no cold spots, nothing jumping out at them from the shadows.

He shrugged and turned to Dean. "Might be a bust."

Dean frowned, and nodded slowly.

They didn't have much of a choice, as Sam saw it. If nothing presented itself, they could try again tomorrow, but it wouldn't do much good poking around in a house trying to provoke a spirit even if there was none. Research would help them determine any history of violence or tragedy, anything that might indicate a reason for someone to stick around after they were gone.

Dean abruptly clicked off his flashlight. In response, Sam brought his up. "What's up?"

"Idea," Dean grunted, weighing the Mag-Lite in his hand.

Without another word, he swung the flashlight like a baseball bat in a one handed grip. Sam cringed; they weren't made for it, but if you needed a weapon in a pinch one could come in handy. And as long as you didn't mind destroying one in the process, it could do a lot of damage.

The EMF went wild in Sam's hands as the wall easily gave way beneath the heavy aluminum.

Dean swung again, and this time the lens shattered on impact. Dean rapidly brought his hand back for a third time, and the spirit finally decided to show itself - but not before sending Dean into the darkness.

Sam spun, instinctively following his brother instead of focusing on where the blow might have come from. The beam of his flashlight came to rest on Dean, pressed against the far wall, looking stunned and covered in dust he'd mopped up on the way.

"You okay?" he asked, immediately regretting his decision to come in unprepared. He hadn't expected trouble; his first mistake. The second was leaving the shotgun in the trunk.

Dean nodded and rubbed the back of his head with a wince. Sam didn't miss the streaks of red when he pulled it away.

"Shit," he spat, taking in the cracked wall behind his brother as well. "You're bleeding."

Dean glanced at his hand, looking somewhat surprised.

"What were you thinking, anyway?" Sam asked, offering a hand to help him up.

He shrugged in response, but allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.

"I take it someone didn't appreciate you banging on their house," mused Sam, playing the light over the gaping hole in the wall.

"Yeah," Dean said simply, stooping to retrieve his own flashlight.

"So, you wanted to piss the ghost into coming out to play?" Sam asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"Worked."

"Yeah," he agreed after a moment. "So I guess we need to figure out what happened here."

Sam sighed; it was time to hit the books.

--

They waited for morning to hit anything. By the time they found the town's singular hotel and Sam played nurse to the small cut on Dean's scalp, they were both too worn out to contemplate any research. Dean woke them both up at dawn, but Sam managed to get back to sleep after calming him down.

As he munched on a blueberry muffin he wondered if Dean had done the same. His bloodshot eyes and the circles beneath them were standard fare, so he couldn't be sure. He watched as his brother carefully selected a muffin from the box he'd picked up at the gas station earlier.

If there was anything to find, he was missing it.

He felt rusty, off his game, and knew it was the furthest thing from the truth. He was better now than he'd ever been - there was a reason his name was well known, and for once it wasn't because he was special. He'd spent the past four years honing his skills, living up to the Winchester name, dancing on a thin line that bordered obsession.

He guessed that was what happened when hunting was all you had left.

He wasn't off his game... the game had changed. Someone threw a wrench in the gears, introducing a new set of rules, and he wasn't sure he could play along.

"There's not much online beyond talk of the new plans for the place," he said as Dean picked at his muffin. "So I'll probably have to check the library."

Dean's hand froze, a broken off piece of muffin suspended in front of his mouth. "Oh."

More than anything, he wanted to forget about it. More than anything, he knew he couldn't.

Research was boring, frustrating, and more than a little annoying but it was also one of the most integral parts of hunting. Even Dean wouldn't go into things without scaring up what information he could. You had to know what you were up against, know what to expect, and most importantly, know how to get rid of it.

Which meant he needed to get his ass in gear and figure out how to play these new rules fast. Didn't mean he had to like it.

"You know, there probably won't even be anyone there," he said quickly. "You could come with me."

Dean popped the bit of muffin in his mouth and chewed like it was the last thing he wanted to do.

"Take that as a no," he said softly, watching as the rest of his brother's breakfast was deposited back in the box.

"I'll make it fast," he promised.

Dean locked eyes with him, there surprising Sam. "I'll go."

"You sure?" he asked, watching the tension play across his brother's face.

"No," Dean replied softly.

"Then I'll make it faster."

--

"...accident in the early 30's, but it doesn't say anyone was even hurt..."

_Heavy man in his fifties, sports coat, over by nonfiction._

"...fire in the kitchen, cook was burned pretty bad, but she survived and they covered the bills..."

_The teenager by the front desk, carrying a purse._

"... there was a kidnapping... never mind, turned out to be a runaway..."

_Librarian could fit some heat under that cardigan._

"...damn, gimme something here."

_Guy in a grey sweatshirt, by the bulletin board, maybe thirty..._

Sam kept on, reading from articles, but he only caught the occasional sentence here and there. Someone had to keep a lookout.

The sports coat wouldn't conceal a gun, already stretched tightly against the man's broad shoulders and back, but he couldn't rule out knifes. The old lady probably could have concealed an arsenal in her hair alone, but somehow the thought of a weapon stashed in her bouffant didn't have him laughing. The purse would hold at least a small pistol, but the guy in the hoodie was the best bet. It was baggy enough to neatly conceal a holster or hastily stashed weapon.

"... forced entry, graffiti found on the walls... "

Maybe they knew he'd go for that guy, first. Then it would make the most sense to pick the least assuming suspect, but there was the question of which one that was. The old lady was the obvious choice, but they'd know that, wouldn't they? The kid looked innocent enough, but what did that mean? It only made them more dangerous if you got 'em started early - no one ever suspected a kid. The older guy had enough padding around his middle to keep him from being too suspicious, but maybe that was the point. He'd bet the guy could still do some damage.

"Dean? Are you listening?"

He answered without turning his head, keeping all four in his line of sight. "Mm."

"Dean!"

It was a hissed whisper designed to get his attention without disturbing anyone, but it sure as hell got his attention. He started, looked back to Sam, and immediately felt the spiders on his back.

"Where were you?" Sam asked, flashing a grin that immediately fell away when he thought about what he'd asked.

He tried to smile back at Sam, but had a feeling it looked more like a grimace.

"So, uh, I was just saying there were no unexplained deaths, well, any I could find, anyway," Sam muttered with a frown. "But we know there's something there, and that it doesn't like people messing with the house."

Dean felt the sigh that built up behind Sam's carefully passive face. He didn't have to hear it to know how frustrated Sam was. Any other time, any other gig, he could slap on a fake badge, invent a history with some stupid newspaper, dig around the locals and get his answers in no time. Now he was limited to dusty libraries and avoiding everyone for fear his crazy brother would have another _moment_.

_Why can't you just be normal?_

He cleared his throat and nodded dumbly. "N-need more to go on."

Sam looked surprised, and he bit the inside of his cheek at that. Maybe he should be talking more? But as he tried to think of something to say, his eyes were drawn back to the front desk; he really didn't trust that librarian...

Sam stood up, his chair scraping across the floor loud enough to have the librarian glancing in their direction. At her glare, Dean took a reflexive step back, bumping into Sam. He resisted the urge to press closer, and remembered a time he would have done so to protect Sam, not to seek protection.

Then Sam was gripping his arm lightly, saying, "Let's go check out the house again, huh?"

The librarian went back to her business, smiling cheerfully as she checked out the girl's stack of magazines, and he wondered why he'd been so worried.

"Dean?"

Sam stared at him expectantly.

He couldn't suppress the shiver as he followed his brother to the car.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note : For the record, Manor House is not a manor-house. The name just made me snicker.

Thank you, all you wonderful people who reviewed! I should stop apologizing for posting chapters so far apart, because so far I haven't fixed the problem. This one was edited very minimally so I could get it up, I apologize for any errors resulting from my laziness.

---

In the bright daylight Manor House looked more melancholy than menacing. Sam hesitated briefly at the top of steps, having neatly avoided the hole Dean's foot made the night before. He knew another sweep of the house probably wouldn't turn up any new information, but he wanted another look just to be sure.

The sun filtering in through the dirty windows cast enough light to display just how rundown the house actually was. What little wall paper was left was peeling away, and the walls behind were stained with grime. The floors were hardwood, now more scratches than sheen, even beneath the layer of dust.

Sam let out a low whistle as he traced a vicious looking crack in one wall. "This place needs a lot of work."

A lot of work, but it could be beautiful again someday. Provided they figure out whose bones needed torched.

As they made slowly made their way through the rooms, he wondered what the story was here. Murder was always the best bet when it came to vengeful spirits, but there'd been no mention in any of the records he'd gone through, and murder always made the papers. And besides, it wouldn't explain the why only a few of the workers had been killed.

Sam trailed his fingers along the bannister as he ascended the stairs and wished again for the time and ability to go through this one properly. Any other time he might even enjoy unravelling the mystery. No one was in any immediate danger while renovations were on hold, and it wasn't often a hunter got to work without time constraints.

When he came to the hole in the wall created by Dean's flashlight he stopped. Squinting, he brought his hand to the hole, feeling rough brick against the pads of his fingers.

"Huh."

He felt Dean's unvoiced question, and followed up with, "Must've closed off a chimney."

Dean came up behind him, furrowing his brow as if asking 'so?'.

He took off at a jog and his heart sped up in anticipation. "How do we get to the basement?"

They hadn't bothered to check it out the night before, but when he saw the hidden brick, a light went off in his mind. It had been brief, but he remembered skimming over part of an article that mentioned the original owner's involvement in the Underground Railroad. It might be nothing, but it might be something.

He tried the handles on all the closed doors, but the only one that wasn't locked lead to a small bathroom.

"Sam."

At Dean's voice he turned, seeing his brother dropping into the hole where the floor had given out. Alarmed, he rushed over, just in time to see Dean rising from a crouch. He looked up, beckoning his brother with one arm.

"And how are you going to get back up?" Sam asked smugly, teasing for the sake of normalcy.

Dean grunted a reply. "Easier to find a way out. Not so many doors."

He had a point.

"Fine," he laughed, and tossed down the shotgun. "Catch."

He made sure the ground was clear before taking the plunge, dropping into a crouch to absorb the impact. He'd noticed the dip in temperature before he rose; it was cold enough to see his breath.

Dark, too. There didn't seem to be any windows, and he couldn't past the circle of light they were standing in. "Any lights?"

Dean lifted his chin, and Sam followed his direction, looking to the right. One of the walls was damaged, near what used to be the ceiling. On closer inspection, it looked almost intentional. As if -

"They were trying to wire the basement for electricity?"

Dean only shrugged, but Sam didn't really need him to. He was sure now that this was where they would finally find some answers.

"Looks like we've got a lead," he said, grinning.

Dean cast him a look, and after a moment he realized it was directed at his enthusiasm. With a small smile, he shrugged. "Guess we both changed, huh?"

Dean looked away, wordlessly handing Sam the gun.

"I read something," he quickly went on, "Maybe a lead. It wasn't much, but one of the old papers mentioned this place being used as part of the Underground Railroad."

He walked the circle of light, peering into the shadows, but there didn't seem there was much to see

"A lot of houses had hidden rooms, or secret passageways, to help hide the slaves," he said. "Maybe someone made it a permanent hiding place."

Hell, a basement like this could cold even without a spirit present. Practically an icebox.

He shuddered at the thought while Dean turned slow circles, watching Sam pace.

"I know," he said without looking, "it's not much to go on, but it's better than nothing. All we have to do is find it."

No sooner had he spoken than he felt something slam into his right shoulder, spinning him off balance. The shotgun went flying, and he broke off a curse, pain blossoming as he hit one knee.

Dean was at his side in an instant, scanning the darkness with wary eyes.

"I'm okay," he answered the silent question. "What the hell?"

"Hammer," Dean mumbled, reaching out an arm to help him up.

He yanked hard, bringing Dean down instead. "Duck!"

He hit the floor, the hammer slicing through the air where his head would have been. They rolled together and came up fast.

"Dammit!" Sam cried, searching the darkness for the gun. "Where is it?"

He learned it's location when it hurtled toward them, clipping Dean in the forehead and sending them both back to the ground. The fire in his shoulder doubled, tripled.

Grinding his teeth against the pain, he rolled to his stomach, easing the pressure on his back.

He looked left, then right, his eyes coming to rest on Dean. He was sprawled on his side in the shadows, the shotgun lost in the darkness. Cursing again, he made his way to his brother's limp form, crawling on his belly.

"Dean!" he hissed, easing his brother onto his back.

No good. The entire right side of Dean's face was bloodied, and already a lump was forming over his eye. Using the hem of his t-shirt he gently dabbed blood away from his eye.

"Come on, Dean," he said anxiously. "Wake up."

He took a moment to comply, but opened his eyes diligently, blinking slowly. Sam was pleased to see recognition as he helped his brother sit up.

"You okay?"

There was no time to answer. The air around them stirred, gently at first, then violently, sending dust and bits of concrete whirling around them. The air howled as if a thunderstorm had somehow found its way into the basement.

"We need light!" Sam shouted to be heard over the wind. "Where's the damn door?"

He hauled Dean to his feet, then left him swaying as he dashed into the darkness, arms outstretched. When they came into contact with the wall, jarring him, he began a half-jog around the perimeter. Rough concrete scraped his hands as he felt for the door, but he was rewarded with the feel of smooth wood soon after.

The door at the top of the staircase was closed, too, allowing very little light, but he didn't dare leave his brother long enough to open it. As he raced back into the basement, the toe of his boot met with something solid. He caught himself before he tripped, but let the momentum carry him forward until he held the shotgun in his hands.

"This way!" he shouted.

Dean stumbled toward him, an Sam switched the gun to his other hand, wrapping the other around his waist. He pulled Dean along, using the faint light at the top of the stairs as a guide.

They half fell up the stairs, bursting through the door and crashing into the wall directly behind it. A cloud of dust exploded into the air, carried by the wind that seemed to follow them.

Sam turned and fired a shot at random into the basement, hoping the rock salt might disrupt the faux storm. His one armed shot meant the aim was off, but he didn't have a target anyway, and it was no surprise it didn't help.

In the hallway, the abandoned box of nails spilled open, joining the dust in a frenzied tornado before rocketing straight at his face.

Instinctively he turned, taking Dean with him. A few nails hit at enough of an angle to illicit brief stabs of pain, but most fell away harmlessly. There, they rolled to a stop on the ground, seemingly unaffected by the maelstrom around them.

The protective arm he'd thrown around his brother was shaken off angrily as Dean pulled away. Sam was startled to see the look on his face made all the more feral by the drying blood.

"Fuck this!" Dean growled into the air. "Give me something to _fight!"_

Without warning he charged, thrusting his hand in Sam's pocket before he could protest.

"What the - "

He stuck around long enough for Sam to spot his lighter - cheap red plastic - clutched in his fist. Then he was gone, into the cloud of dust.

Nails scattered as he followed, coming up behind him just as Dean was tossing a can of WD-40 to the ground. He remembered seeing it the night before, but hadn't given it much attention until now.

"Dean, what are you doing?" he called, shielding his eyes with his arm as dust pelted his face.

He didn't answer, staring at the floor by his feet for a heartbeat before flicking the lighter to life.

Oh, shit.

The patch of floor and wall soaked with WD-40 immediately burst into flames, but it didn't take long to spread, the fire licking the old wood just as greedily.

Dean stood stock still, staring at the fire with a look Sam couldn't quite place. He got the feeling he would have stood there a lot longer if he hadn't grabbed his arm.

"Come on!" he urged. "We gotta go, Dean."

His brother turned to him with a flat expression on his face, flames reflected in his eyes.

"Now, Dean," he stressed, tugging on his arm again. "_Now_."

Reluctantly he allowed Sam to pull him from the burning hallway. Then, as if just realizing what he'd done, he matched Sam's urgent pace.

They burst through the front door, tumbling down the stairs in a tangle of limbs. For a moment they just lay there, breathing fresh air, feeling the sunlight and absolute _stillness_ of the air out there.

After his heart settled back in his chest, Sam sat up. Already flames were visible from the outside; even with a modest amount of accelerant, the house was being devoured. He felt a pang of sympathy, even sadness. The town was losing their community center, and a piece of the past that actually stood for something just would soon be nothing more than ash.

He had to remind himself they would also be rid of any future deaths. Whatever spirit it was - an escaped slave that hadn't quite made the journey North or a something more sinister - it wouldn't be hurting anyone. Any connection to the house would be severed by nightfall; an abandoned house this far out, no one was likely to notice a fire until it was too late. The house was done for, and so were any bones that might be hidden inside.

It was a rash decision, maybe not a necessary one, but he had to remember what was important : it worked.

"We need to go," he said softly.

---

"What're we playing for?"

There was enough edge to his voice to sound interested and just a little uncertain, and the man across the table reacted accordingly. "Let's say ten bucks a ball?"

Sam cast a weary eye at the table, and shook his head. "Five."

"Deal."

He accepted the proffered hand, and returned Jack's smile.

The guy had him pegged as easy money, probably had from the time he set up at one of three pool tables at the back of the bar. He'd known he was being watched, made sure his moves were visible, but not too sure. Sure enough, after a few solo games, the man approached, introduced himself, and offered some friendly competition.

Another three games and he suggested making things "a little more interesting".

Jack broke, and sunk two in a row before giving Sam his chance.

When he lifted the cue, it took everything in him not to cringe.

Driving was hellish, which meant this was next to impossible. Well, more impossible than usual.

When Dean did it, it was called hustling. When Sam did it, it was every bit the gamble his opponent thought. He had an advantage, sure - hours of practice under his belt, and he'd learned from two of the best - but he was nowhere near the level Dean or his Dad had been. Skill, a little manipulation, and the rest was up to fate.

"Nine in the corner," he offered.

The motion sent a stab of pain down his arm and into his back, but he ignored it, sinking two balls in a row. The third he deliberately missed, sending it spinning into the rail.

"Too bad," Jack said, managing to sound like he actually meant it.

Sam lost the first game on purpose, struggled to win the third, then lost the next two in a row.

"You wanna stop?" Jack asked, laughing when Sam missed an easy shot.

"Bad luck," he returned with a good natured smile. "I'm telling you, any minute now you're gonna be asking me for tips."

He laughed, but Sam won that game.

He was starting to get antsy when midnight rolled around, and his shoulder felt like it could very well detach from his body at any minute. He was about to offer a polite excuse to leave when Jack offered double or nothing on a game of nine-ball.

The frown that crossed his face wasn't feigned. Nine-ball could be over before he even got a shot in.

"I don't know," he said, glancing at his watch. "I told my girlfriend I'd only be gone a few hours."

"Come on," Jack said with a wink. "She's probably in bed by now, don't even know you're gone!"

"How much are we talking?" he asked, putting the power in his hands.

"Let's say 90 for the game?" Jack offered for the second time that night. "That's ten bucks a ball no matter how many you put in a pocket."

Sam frowned. Ninety bucks was a lot to fork over, but it was also a reassuring weight in his wallet. "Yeah, okay."

When Jack won the lag Sam was sure he was screwed. When he sent ball after ball neatly into the pockets, he kissed his money goodbye. When he finally missed, leaving Sam with four balls, he felt like dancing.

He settled for praying under his breath as he lined up his shot. He hit the six, prayed, and sent the eight spinning into the left corner.

The seven rolled to rest comically close to the side pocket, and was nudged carefully in. Eight was fate, and he heard Jack curse behind him when it thunked home, leaving only the nine.

Sam didn't bother hiding his nerves, straightening and exhaling sharply as he surveyed the table.

He wiped his hands on his pocket, and finally bent over the table, doing his best and leaving the rest to chance.

He took his shot.

"Shit."

---

Sam came home smelling of smoke, sweat, and alcohol.

The smells were familiar, but the bright eyes and cocky smile were new. Somewhere along the line his baby brother had disappeared. In his place stood a man.

And he'd missed it.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "But I have a good excuse."

Dean watched from his bed as Sammy dug in his pocket, fishing out a wad of bills and slapping it on the dresser. He flinched at the noise, but eyed the pile, recognizing at least a hundred dollars, easily more.

"About two sixty," his brother announced, shrugging out of his jacket. "Woulda been more, but I lost a few."

He'd taught Sam as much.

_"Always gotta lose a few, Sammy. Otherwise they're gonna know you're screwin' 'em over. They figure that out and you're screwed, and it's gonna go one of two ways : you lose the money, or you get your ass kicked. Sometimes both, but if you're lucky enough to get the choice, you pick your ass, okay? It's not worth it."_

Hell knew if Sam ever listened - he hadn't exactly led by example - but if tonight was any indication, he was holding his own.

Holding his own.

He curled up to watch Sam count the money, slipping some of it into his wallet and some into the bottom of his duffle. He was moving stiffly, and Dean didn't need to ask to know he was suffering. On the drive home, he'd driven with his left hand, asking Dean to shift. How he'd managed to keep up with anyone willing to lose that much money playing pool was beyond him.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he said as he stood. "You okay?"

Dean nodded; it was only the eightieth time Sam asked in the last nine hours. When they got back to their room it was, " Are you okay? How's your head? What year is it?"

Then again when he announced they were running low on funds, and he'd need to head out to get some. "Are you sure you're okay if I leave for a little while?"

He'd spent those hours forcing himself to lie perfectly still on the bed, to be normal, and not hide. (If that meant forcing yourself to sit in the dark with only a muted TV as company.) The whole time he was tense and trying hard to convince himself that not every noise meant something sinister was lying in wait on the other side of the door.

Yeah. Things had changed. Now Sam was out there doing the things he should be doing. He was supposed to take care of Sam, not the other way around. His brother shouldn't have been working some bastard out of his money in the first place. That was his job, he was better at it.

So why was he, with a mild concussion at best, at home on his ass while Sam was playing pool with a shoulder that was more colorful than the bedspread beneath him.

His fingers crept upward, tracing the cut on his forehead. His head might be pounding, but it hadn't even required stitches.

Disgusted with himself, he turned onto his side, other aches making themselves known. He diligently ignored them.

The shower shut off abruptly, leaving the room in dreadful silence until the bathroom door creaked open in a shower of light and steam. Sam emerged wearing a towel and looking like the energy he'd brought home had finally crashed.

When he knelt to retrieve a fresh set of clothes from his bag, Dean got his first look at the result of the hammer's impact : a bruise the size of a dinner plate that was an ugly array of black, blue, and everything in between. He cringed, knowing it had to hurt, but Sam offered him a smile anyway. Just before he disappeared back into the bathroom with his clothes and shaving kit in hand, Dean saw the tattoo.

He stared at the closed door, feeling suddenly, utterly exposed. His fingers twitched, and rose to his chest. Branded into his mind was the bold ink, unbroken lines that graced the perfect flesh beneath.

A tremor wracked his body at the memory of how it felt to have a demon wearing his skin. How it felt to be defenseless at the feet of one, at the mercy of a creature that didn't know the meaning of the word.

The sound of the tap turning broke the silence, startling him. He wanted to roll his eyes at the reaction; he was getting so damn sick of every little noise making him jump.

Sam entered with steam still at his heels, tossing his dirty clothes in the direction of his duffle. They missed by an inch, landing in a heap, but he paid them no mind, dutifully checking the salt lines again.

It was something of a ritual now, Sam checking their defenses with an OCD-like thoroughness what seemed like every hour. Too much and never enough, he knew.

He watched Sammy carefully stretch out on his bed, watching the screen with disinterest while he tried to find a position that didn't hurt.

"S-Sam?" he spoke hesitantly, wanting to take it back as soon as those eyes were on him.

"Yeah?"

"I...you should," he faltered, gesturing at Sam's shoulder quickly before tucking his arm back around his body.

"S'okay," Sam shrugged with his good shoulder, then winced at that. "Well, it will be. I took the good stuff."

Guilt stabbed him in the gut. Sam should have been X-rayed, strapped in a sling, not out playing pool to keep his head above water long enough to - to what? Coddle his brother? Pity him?

God.

He swallowed hard mouth working in the dark, trying to form words he had no idea how to say.

Sorry wasn't good enough, but what else _could_ he say? The very least he could do was offer to get Sam some ice. The ice machine was outside, at the end of the hall. It would take five minutes, tops. It was for _Sam._

_Come on, Dean, _he urged himself. _Offer to get him some ice. Just... say it._

He couldn't make the words come out, though, and the next time he looked over Sam was stretched on his stomach, dead to the world.

_Sorry, Sammy._

---- 

A/N : The math in this chapter might be off - again. I blame dyscalculia - again.

In case you're wondering about the story behind the house, don't worry, you didn't miss it. There really isn't one. It was sort of purposefully left vague, though I think it came out a little stressed. I dislike that, but I needed to give the boys something a little confusing.

The house was haunted... literally.


End file.
